SH3A1N1 


BRARY^ 


*)di 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


I 


BY 


J,    H,    WARD 


Author  of  "The  Hand  of  Providence,"  Gospel  Philosophy,"    "Current 
Topics   in  Europe,"  Editor  of  Salt  Lake  City  "Beobachter,"  Etc. 


Illustrated    With  J^umerouj    EntfratJintfj   From    Original    "Dejijnj  by 
the   Author  and   Ttratvn   by   tUeggeland. 


ENLARGED    EDITION 


WRITE  to  the  mind  and  heart,  and  let  the  ear 

Glean  after  what  it  can.     The  voice  of  good, 

or  graceful  thoughts,  is  sweeter  far  than  all 

Word  music:  and  good  thoughts,  like  great  deeds,  need 

No  trumpet. 


SALT  LAKE  CITY.  UTAH.  1903. 


To  THE  YOUNG, 

lr\  the  Commencerr]eqt  of  Life's  Jourqey: 

To  THE  MIDDLE-AGED, 

Surrouqded   by   Cares  and  Conflicts: 

To  THE  AGED, 

Who  ^ave  Toiled  ar\d  Suffered: 

To  MY  EARNEST  FRIENDS  EVERYWHERE; 

Thjs  Little  Volunqe  is  Inscribed 
BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


762360 


CONTENTS 


Jared  Barnes'   Fiddle,  .  .  .  13 

Sleep  of  the  Six  Hundred,  .  .  .  16 

Evermore,  .  .  .  .  .20 

Time  Brings  Change,  .  .  .22 

Life,  .  .  .  .  -23 

A  The  Old  Man  in  the  Stylish  Church,  .  .  24 

I  Was  Thinking  as  We  Sat  Here,        .  .  .26 

A  Child's  Idea,  .... 

Be  True  to  Thyself, 

The  Destined  Way,    .... 

The  Lion's  Bride, 

Wanted,   ..... 

Soliloquy  of  a  Loafer,         .... 

A  Terrible  Terrier,     .... 

A  Strange  Affair,  .... 

A  O,   Heart  of  Mine,      .... 

The  Happy  Islands, 

The  Theological  Dispute, 

The  Tide  of  Life,  .... 

To  an  Old-Time  Friend,  . 

A  Daughter's  Love  at  Fourteen  Years, 

A  Fallen  One's  Lament, 

The  Seven  Ages  of  Woman, 

The  Pilgrim  and  His  Staff, 

Passing  Away,  .... 

Retrospection,  .... 

At  Rest,  ..... 

The  Incarnation,         .... 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

The  Old  Maid's  Retrospection,  .  .  .80 

Compensation,  .  .  .  .81 

,The  Good  Time  Now,         .  .  .  .82 

The  Spirit's  Cry,        .  .  .  .83 

The  Coming  Day,  -,  .  .  .84 

A  Way  I  Knew  Not,  ._«^._.  .  .  84 

-—^Wrecks,  .  ,  ... 

Heaven,  .  .»  ,  > 

A  Little  While, 

Tired  of  Play,  >  ,  .  . 

We  are  Growing  Old,         .  .  . 

The  Triumph  of  Truth,  Pv< 

Chance,  .  .  .  . 

Minne-Ha-Ha,  .  .  ..." 

A  Home  Pidure,  .  ,  :.  •;. 

Hungering  Hearts,   .  .  -  ,    ' 

Utah,  The  Queen  of  the  West,  '  .  . 

^Young  Love's  First  Dream, 
-  Divorced,  .  '"  .  . 

Three  Angels,  .  . 

The  Pioneers,    .  .  .  ,  .  . 

Early  Memories,          .  .  , 

A  Wife's  Reminiscence, 

The  White  Stairway,    ,  i. 

Two  Workers,  . 

Why  Was  I  Looking  Out  ? 

Turning  Gray, 

An  Old  Road,  .... 

The  Merchant, 

Lazing,     . 

Isolation, 

The  Hill  Difficulty,    . 

Civil  War, 

Not  Fit  to  be  Kissed, 

Drifting,  * 

Speak  Thy  Thought, 


CONTENTS. 


My  Native  Land, 

Children  at  their  Play, 

We've  Drunk  from  the  Same  Canteen, 

Who  Was  He?  .... 

The  Mountain  Boy, 

Toward  Sunset, 

The  Bachelor's  Confession, 

The  Land  of  Rest,     .... 

Eternity, 

Earth's  Tribute,          .... 

Hold  Still,         .... 

Comforting  Words  to  those  who  have  Lost  their  Children, 

Fidelity  and  Honesty, 

A  Legend  of  the  Maelstrom, 

Mignon,  . 

The  Castle  of  Boncoiart, 

The  Indian's  Revenge, 

Wynona,  .... 

Hero  and  Leander, 

Hope, 

Judas,  .... 

Change,    ..... 

Past  and  Future:  A  New  Year's  Rhyme, 

To  Unseen  Friends,  . 

Requiem  to  Gen.   Grant,     . 

Unknown  Heroes,       .... 

A  Noad  to  Blondin,  .  . 


ILLUSTRATIONS, 


Boldly  He  Spoke  and  Well,  -      17 

I  was  Thinking  as  We  Sat  Here,   Dear  Wife,  27 

In  the  Days  that  are  Past  We  were  Happy  and  Gay,  -      33 

As  on  Balanced  Chair  the  Senator  Swung,  -  39 

The  Moon  Shone  Calm  on  that  Summer  Scene,   -  -      43 

The  Kiss  of  the  Laborer's  Wife  at  Morn,   -  51 

Sometimes  in  the  Evening's  Golden  Haze,  -      55 

She,  too,  will  be  Mamma,  and  Lull  to  Rest,  59 

There,  Wrapt  in  Musing,  She  Delights  to  Stray,  63 

The  Youngest,   Cradled  on  Her  Fostering  Breast,  .  67 

She  in  Her  Children's  Children  Tastes  Again,       -  71 

But  Dearer  Far,   My  Darling,      -  77 

There  are  Wrecks  on  the  Beach  by  the'  Headland,  -      87 

In  the  Land  of  the  Dacotahs,      -  97 

They  were  an  Exile  Band,  -     107 

Mute  are  Those  Lips  with  a  Tale  Untold,    -  131 
Floating  on  the  Wild  Waves  of  that  L)ark  Heaving  Tomb,  -    149 

But  the  Savage,  Calmly  Smiling,  Answered,                     •»  165 

Swiftly  they  Urge  their  Way,  but  'Tis  Too  Late,  177 

O'er  lhat  Dark  and  Billowy  Way,                  -                     -  183 


PREFACE 


WHAT  !  challenge  the  public  to  read  your  thoughts?  Yet  that 
is  really  what  an  author  does  when  he  writes  a  book. 

I  know,  alas,  too  well,  that  many  of  my  thoughts  are  not 
worth  a  memory;  but,  perhaps,  my  best  thoughts,  clothed  in  my 
best  words,  and  these,  culled  and  selected  during  twenty-six 
years,  may  be  worth  a  momentary  glance.  Some  of  these  pieces 
have  been  published  and  republished.  At  first  my  name  was 
attached  to  them;  then  other  papers  copied  them,  and  to  them 
appended  the  word  "  Selected. "  Some  of  them  have  been  repub 
lished  in  books,  with  the  easily-spelled  word  "Anon."  placed  at 
the  bottom,  or  even  assigned  to  some  other  author.  It  is  my  duty 
to  acknowledge  my  poetical  children,  and  a  pleasure  also,  seeing 
they  have  made  themselves  useful  in  the  world  of  letters. 

These  "Ballads"  have  been  written  under  varied  circum 
stances, —  in  the  old-fashioned  farm-house,  in  the  bustling  railroad 
depot,  on  the  broad  and  lonely  prairie,  in  far  northern  wilds, 
amid  the  children  of  the  forest,  and  some  even  in  a  soldier's  tentr 
with  a  drum-head  for  a  writing  desk,  while  watching  at  the  bed 
side  of  a  wounded  comrade. 

The  "Translations"  are  from  various  authors  —  Chamissor 
Louis  Frichette,  Goethe,  Reinick,  Schiller,  Seume  Uhland,  Ritter- 
mann  and  Julius  Sturm.  In  some  instances  bungling  translations 
of  these  authors  are  in  print.  In  such  cases  the  original  text  and 


vi  PREFACE. 

a  more  correct  translation  has  been  placed    on    opposite    pages,  so 
that  the  critical  reader  may  compare  them. 

To  use  the  words  of  another,  "Here,  wrapped  up  in  words,  lie 
those  thoughts  that  floated  through  the  brain,  and  those  feelings 
that  burned  in  the  heart,  and  were  the  hidden  motives  of  outward 
adion." 

The  critic  will,  no  doubt,  see  in  these  compositions  many  a 
faulty  rhyme, —  many  a  sentence  which  might  be  improved.  We 
may  comfort  ourselves,  however,  with  the  thought  that  they  con 
tain  no  expressions  injurious  to  the  young,  or  antagonistic  to  the 
most  rigid  moralist. 

The  introduction  was  written  by  a  life-long  friend,  and  though 
there  may  be  sentiments  in  it  too  flattering  to  the  author,  still 
out  of  respecl  to  the  writer  we  leave  them  untouched. 

Perhaps  few  of  our  readers  realize  the  difficulties  we  have 
encountered  in  the  production  of  this  work;  therefore,  criticise  not 
too  harshly,  but  treasure  up  whatever  grains  of  wheat  may  be 
found  among  the  chaff. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


NTRODUCTION 


A  LITTLE  more  than  forty-two  years  ago  the  subject  of  this 
sketch  was  born  in  a  little  log  cabin,  on  the  bank  of  the  River 
Thames,  in  the  Province  of  Ontario.  His  father,  George  Ward, 
was,  if  we  mistake  not,  a  native  of  New  York  State,  and  a  mem 
ber  of  one  of  the  most  historic  families  on  the  American  continent. 

* 

The  great  ancestor  of  this  family,  so  far  as  America  is  concerned, 
was  the  Rev.  Nathaniel  Ward,  an  English  non-conformist  minister, 
who  was  silenced  by  Archbishop  Laud  in  1631,  for  preaching 
against  the  tyranny  of  King  Charles  I. 

Nathaniel  Ward  came  to  America,  became  one  of  the  founders 
of  Haverhill,  Mass. ,  and  was  the  author  of  the  first  code  of  laws 
ever  drawn  up  in  New  England.  One  of  his  descendants,  General 
Artemas  Ward,  became  prominent  in  the  Revolutionar)'  struggle. 
He  commanded  the  militia  for  a  time,  and  afterwards,  when  Wash 
ington  was  appointed  to  the  command  of  the  colonial  armies,  Gen 
eral  Ward  held  the  position  of  major-general  under,  and  in  rank 
was  second  to  Washington  only.  Several  others  of  the  Ward 
family  have  become  scarcely  less  noted,  among  whom  may  be 
mentioned  Samuel  Ward,  delegate  to  the  Continental  Congress, 
and  governor  of  Rhode  Island  for  several  years,  and  John  E. 
Ward,  U.  S.  minister  to  China. 

But  the  genius  of  the  family  seems  to  have  ever  been  of  a 
literary  turn,  with  a  tendency  for  radicalism.  Among  the  promi- 


INTRODUCTION. 


nent  members  still  living,  may  be  mentioned  William  H.  Ward, 
editor  of  the  New  York  Independent;  Rev.  Henry  Ward,  D.D.r 
of  Buffalo,  New  York,  and  Julia  Ward  Howe,  the  noted  poetess, 
lecturer  and  female  suffragist. 

Henry  Ward  Beecher  and  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  author  of 
"Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  are  said  to  belong  to  this  family  on  their 
mother's  side. 

About  the  year  1836  George  Ward,  then  a  young  man,  left 
his  father's  house  in  western  New  York,  and  like  thousands  of  ' 
other  young  men,  started  to  try  his  fortunes  in  the  then  wild  reg 
ions  of  the  West.  His  route  lay  through  Western  Canada,  and 
there  he  tarried  for  a  time,  working  as  a  millwright.  There  also 
,he  became  acquainted  with  a  young  Canadienne,  whom  he  married; 
and  there  also  the  subject  of  this  sketch  was  born.  Afterward 
George  Ward  came  on  to  Michigan,  where  he  died  in  1850. 

After  a  time  his  widow  married,  and,  as  in  many  instances, 
young  Ward  became  dependent  upon  his  own  resources.  Several 
of  his  father's  relatives  were  living  near,  and  they  took  some  inter 
est  in  the  lad.  He  became  a  most  industrious  student;  often  in 
the  dim  light  of  fading  day,  by  the  blaze  of  a  pine  knot,  or  early 
in  the  morning,  while  others  were  sleeping,  he  was  to  be  found  at 
his  books. 

An  incident  or  two  may  not  be  out  of  place  here  illustrating 
traits  of  character.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  spoke  so  rapidly  and 
stammered  so  badly  that  few  of  his  acquaintances  could  understand 
him. 

Somewhere  he  had  read  of  Demosthener,  and  how  he  had 
cured  his  stammering  by  wearing  a  pebble  in  his  mouth.  Young 
Ward  resolved  to  try  it,  and  for  more  than  three  years  he  carried 
a  smooth,  flat  pebble  inside  his  cheek,  until  he  had  habituated 
himself  to  speak  more  slowly  and  plainly. 


INTRODUCTION. 


When  a  little  more  than  fourteen  years  of  age  he  learned  that 
his  father's  grave  was  likely  to  be  disturbed  by  improvements  near 
it.  He  set  out  on  a  journey  of  over  a  hundred  miles  on  foot, 
ascertained  the  facts,  hired  out  to  a  farmer  till  he  earned  sufficient 
to  buy  the  grave,  and  place  a  simple  slab  at  the  head  of  it.  On 
his  way  home  he  stopped  at  a  little  corner  grocery  to  buy  some 
cakes  and  where,  also,  was  kept  a  book  store  and  circulating 
library.  He  saw  a  book  which  he  liked,  hired  out  two  days  to 
saw  wood  to  pay  for  the  book  and  then  set  out  on  his  journey. 
The  book  was  called  "Young  Man's  Friend,"  ten  lectures  by 
Daniel  C.  Eddy.  He  determined  to  write  a  copy  of  the  entire 
book,  that  its  words  might  bt  impressed  on  his  memory.  This  he 
did  in  the  next  four  months  by  rising  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing.  Aside  from  the  instruction  which  he  thus  received,  he  became 
a  correct  speller  in  most  common  words  and  acquired  that  terse 
style  of  composition  which  is  manifest  in  his  writings.  At  the  age 
of  fifteen  he  had  gathered  quite  a  little  library.  At  that  time  books 
were  not  as  cheap  or  plentiful  as  now,  and  during  the  commercial 
crash  of  1856-7,  money  was  very  scarce.  He  worked  for  a  whole 
week  in  the  broiling  sun  hoeing  corn  for  his  pocket-Bible,  (which, 
he  writes  to  us),  he  still  has  in  good  condition  after  nearly  thirty 
years  of  continuous  wear. 

In  1856  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Stephen  Wright,  who  after 
wards  became  somewhat  noted.as  the  co-worker  of  Fred  Douglass, 
in  the  work  of  negro  emancipation.  Wright  had  once  been  a  slave, 
had  perchased  his  own  freedom,  and  acquired  a  liberal  education. 
From  Wright  young  Ward  learned  the  beautiful  art  of  phonographic 
short-hand,  and  Wright  by  his  kindness  won  the  esteem  of  the  lad, 
and  enlisted  his  sympathies  in  behalf  of  the  enslaved  race.  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin  had  been  published  in  1853,  and  was  begining  to  affect 
society.  The  stirring  political  events  from  1856  to  1860:  the  rapid 


INTRODUCTION. 


progress  of  the  abolition  party:  the  free-soil  struggle  in  Kansas:  the 
workings  of  the  fugitive  slave  law:  all,  made  a  deep  impression  on 
the  mind  of  young  Ward. 

In  1860  while  working  at  the  store  of  Thomas  Currie,  now  of  De 
troit,  he  became  acquainted  with  a  young  woman  about  two  years 
younger  than  himself;  and  one  of  those  romantic  attachments 
sprang  up  that  leave  an  influence  for  many  years.  In  1861,  she 
died  suddenly,  and  so  great  was  the  influence  on  the  youth's 
mind,  that  his  friend's  advised  him  to  seek  recreation.  Accord 
ingly  he  went  to  Shakopee,  Minn.,  and  resided  with  his  father's 
sister.  Her  husband  was  at  that  time  editor  of  the  Shakopee  Ar 
gus,  and  here  his  literary  career,  if  it  may  be  so  called,  commenced. 
Encouraged  by  his  uncle  he  contributed  articles,  both  in  prose  and 
rhyme,  to  that  paper  for  several  years,  some  of  which  have  been 
quite  extensively  copied  into  other  journals  and  books. 

The  studious  habits  of  young  Ward  attracted  the  attention  of 
Rev.  Mr.  Pond,  then  residing  near  Shakopee.  Mr.  Pond  was  at 
that  time  superintendent  of  Indian  missions  in  the  north-west,  and 
as  such  he  asked  his  youthful  friend  to  undertake  the  task  of 
.missionary  teacher  to  the  Indians  near  Fort  Snelling.  While  here 
he  learned  much  of  Indian  character  and  customs,  and  here  he 
wrote  "Wynona"  and  "Minnehaha."  That  summer  when  the 
Hudson's  Bay  fur  trader's  trains  came  down  from  the  far  north 
west,  and  he  saw  their  quaint  wooden  carts,  each  drawn  by  a 
single  ox;  when  he  heard  the  wild  tales  of  that  far-off  country,, 
and  remembered  that  he  had  an  uncle  there  engaged  in  the  fur 
trade,  he  determined  to  go  north  and  taste  the  pleasures  and  pains 
of  wild  adventure. 

But  the  climate  of  Hudson's  Bay  is  not  a  pleasant  one  from 
October  to  May;  and  so,  with  returning  summer  he  came  back, 
just  as  the  country  was  thrown  into  that  terrible  excitement  follow- 


INTRODUCTION.  xi 


ing  the  battle  of  Bull  Run.  Then  he  did  just  what  might  have 
been  expecled — became  a  volunteer  soldier.  He  was  present  at 
the  battle  of  Mill  Springs,  Ky. ,  where  his  friend  and  comrade,  Jas. 
Isenhour,  was  shot  by  his  side.  One  night  while  standing  sentry 
he  conceived  the  idea  of  that  poem  entitled  Civil  War,  commencing: 

Rifleman,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot, 

Straight  to  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  vidette. 

When  relieved  of  his  duty,  he,  by  the  flickering  lamp  light,  and 
using  a  drum-head  for  a  table,  wrote  out  the  poem  on  a  piece  of 
brown  paper,  and  sent  it'  to  his  uncle  at  Shakopee.  He  was  un 
der  Buel's  command  when  he  marched  to  the  relief  of  Grant  at 
Shiloh,  or  Pittsburg  Landing.  The  next  letter  to  his  uncle  carried 
a  copy  of  that  piece  entitled  "Unknown  Heroes." 

At  the  battle  of  Stone  River  or  Murfreesboro,  he  was  severely 
wounded  by  a  piece  of  shell.  He  recovered  sufficiently  to  become 
a  hospital  steward,  and  there  he  wrote,  "Who  Was  He?"  and  "We 
Have  Drunk  From  the  Same  Canteen."  He  was  also  a  corres 
pondent  of  the  North-  Western  Christian  Advocate,  under  the  nom 
de  plume  of  "Miles,  a  Soldier."  When  the  war  was  over  he  was 
not  only  released,  but  also  received  a  recommend  from  several 
chaplains  to  study  for  the  Christian  ministry. 

For  a  time  he  worked  in  the  sash  and  door  manufactory  of 
Palmer,  Fuller  &  Co.,  of  Chicago.  When  he  had  accumulated 
sufficient  funds  he  devoted  his  whdle  time  to  study  and  Sabbath 
school  missionary  work,  under  the  supervision  of  Dwight  L.  Moody, 
who  had  not  tflen  attained  to  celebrity,  but  was  simply  a  plain 
shop-keeper.  Chicago  was  then  scarcely  one-half  the  size  it  now 
is.  That  portion  of  the  city  which  lies  north  of  Chicago  River  was 
then  a  vast  accumulation  of  shanties.  No  schools  or  churches  were 
to  be  found  in  -that  vicinity  until  the  Illinois  Street  and  other  mis 
sions  were  started.  In  the  Illinois  Street  Mission  Ward  became  an 


And  turn  from  the  cross  to  the  worship  of  dross, 
At  the  altars  of  Mammon  and  Mars? 

Ah,  no !  in  God's  might,  with  the  gospel  of  right, 

Yet  herald  an  era  of  peace. 
The  duties  of  man  shall  be  taught  us  again 

And  the  tumult  of  war  cries   shall  cease. 
No  warfare  shall  wage  in  that  golden  age, 

But  justice  will  have  a  new  birth. 
For  the  Savior  of  men  shall  come  once  again, 
To  rule  o'er  this  sin  trodden  earth. 
Then  heroes  of  right  who  have  toiled  through  the  night, 

Shall  shine  with  the  glory  of  stars, 
They'll  wear  a  bright  crown,  for  they  never  bowed  down, 

At  the  altars  of  Mammon  and  Mars. 

A  NEW  NATIONAL  SONG. 
Arise,  sons  of  freedom  and  'herald  the  story, 

That's  'wakened  an  echo  in  every  land ; 
Sing  joyful  of  progress  and  triumphs  and  glory, 

Already  recorded  in  history  grand, 
For  Columbia's  bright  star  sheds  its  radiance  afar, 

A  beacon  of  freedom  and  morning  and  light ; 
For  the  land  born  in  sorrow  shall  have  a  glad  morrow, 

And  princes  pay  homage  to  the  glory  of  right. 

Since  hills,  vales  and  forests  unfolded  their  beauty, 
To  those  who  first  came  here  so  long,  long  ago ; 

What  grand  panorama  of  progress  and  valor, 
In  brightness  of  summer  or  bleakness  of  snow. 

CHORUS : 

As  Columbia's  bright  star  sheds,  etc. 

Did  Washington  gaze  on  such  vision  before  him, 
The  sages  and  heroes  who  made  this  land  free; 

Did  Cherubim  whisper  the  songs  of  the  freeman, 
Or  give  them  a  glimpse  of  the  glories  to  be. 

CHORUS : 

When  Columbia's  star  sheds,  etc. 


All  hail,  to  the  dawn  of  the  jubilee  morning, 
When  Virtue  shall  triumph  and  Justice  shall  reign ; 

When  brotherhood,  peace  and  good  will  join  the  chorus. 
Our  flag  floating  o'er  a  united  domain. 

CHORUS : 

While  Columbia's  bright  star  sheds,  etc. 


OUR  NATION'S  GLORY, 

Our  Sunday  Schools,  our  Sunday  Schools, 

The  glory  of  our  nation; 
'Tis  here  we  learn  life's  golden  rules, 

And   duties   of  our   station. 
The  poor  may  learn  their  honest  worth, 

The  rich  may  learn  their  duty; 
May  learn  our  mission  here  on  earth, 

That  goodness  gives  us  beauty. 

CHORUS : 

Then  let  our  hearts  be  filled  with  joy, 

Our  happy  voices  ringing; 
Here  we  have  bliss  without  alloy, 

While  heavenly  anthems  singing. 

a 
The  rich  may  boast  of  pleasures  rare, 

But  we  can  scarce  believe  them; 
That  they  in  purer  joys  have  share, 

Than  those  our  school  could  give  them. 
O  happy  hours  of  peaceful  rest, 

Vouchsafed  in  life's  glad  morning. 
They'll  make  our  later  years  more  blest, 

With  mem'ries  sweet  adorning. 

As  sometimes  down  the  western  skies, 

The  fiery  sunset  lingers; 
The  gates  of  heaven  seem  to  our  eyes, 

Unlocked  by  unseen  fingers. 
So  Sunday  songs,  like  echoes  far, 


Proclaim  the  wond'rous  story; 
As  sunset  holds  the  gates  ajar, 
And  half  reveals  its  glory. 

This  glorious  light  of  later  days, 

Is  only  in  its  dawning ; 
The  hilltops  catch  the  morning  rays, 
Soon  vales  will  see  the  morning. 
Then  in  that  noontide  splendor  rare, 

'Twill  be  a  fact  worth  knowing; 
That  in  the  harvest  we'll  have  share, 

Because  we  helped  the  sowing. 

A  WESTERN  SONG. 
The  nations  awake  to  a  great  momentous  war, 

And  the  voices  of  heralds  are  heard; 
The  message  has  gone  to  the  people  near  and  far 

To  prepare  for  the  work  of  the  Lord. 
But  vaster,  higher  the  conflict  shall  arise, 

As  truth  becoming  strong; 
The  most  wished  result  e'er  seen  'neath  the  skies : 

When  Right  shall  win  o'er  Wrong. 

Though  scoffers  may  laugh  and  the  unbelievers  scorn 

At  the  work  we  are  doing  today ; 
Like  sowers  we  go  in  the  bright  ^nd  early  morn, 

Scatt'ring  truth  seeds  wherever  we  may ; 
Though  some  seeds  fall  on  the  barren,  rocky  soil, 
And  some  by  the  highway  side; 
Yet  the  words  we  speak  in  our  earnest  toil, 

In  some  honest  hearts  will  abide. 

Our  eyes  may  be  streaming  with  sand  and  blinding  tears, 

As  farewells  are  spoken  at  home; 
But  He  who  redeemed  us  can  banish  all  our  fears, 

Anr   protect  them   wherever   they   roam. 
The  future's  glory  is  hidden  from  our  eyes, 

'Tis  well  that  it  should  be  so; 
They  who  sow  or  reap  shall  sure  win  the  priz.^, 

And  joys  of  the  victor  know. 


BALLADS  OF  LIFE. 


JARED   BARNES'    FIDDLE. 

IT'S  nigh  on  twenty  years  ago, 
Since  last  I  handled  that  old  bow  — 
Sit  closer  to  the  fire,   Joe, 

I  don't  mind  tellin'   'bout  it. 
It's  mighty  curious,   I'll  allow, 
And  while  I  think  upon  it  now, 
It's  kind  o'   like  a   dream,  somehow, 

And  maybe  you  will  doubt  it. 

> 

You  see  that  fiddle  hangin'  thar, 
And  that  old  bow  without  the  har? 
If  they  could  speak,  but  here  we  are, 

And  that  was  twenty  years  ago! 
'Twas  pow'rful  chill  and  cold  that  night, 
Pitch  dark,  without  a  gleam  o'  light, 
And  road  and  fences  hid  from  sight, 

Beneath  the  drifted  snow. 

• 

My  Betsy — well,  you've  heard  'em  say 
As  how  the  poor  girl  left  one  day, 
And  maybe  more,   it's  people's  way 

To  make  such  matters  light. 
She'd  somehow  gone  all  wrong,  you  see,. 
And  aded  strange  and  queer  to^rne— 
God  knows  how  kind  I  tried  to  be! 

Her  mind,   it  wasn't  right. 


14  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


It  came  at  last!     It  hurt  me,  Joe! 

It  seemed  so  hard  o'   heart,   you  know, 

To  say  that  my  poor  girl  must  go 

Up  to  the  'sylum's  walls! 
But  they  thought  best;  and  so,  at  last,    , 
I  held  my  heart  down  hard  and  fast  — 
It  seemed  'twas  colder  than  the  blast, 

Or  any  snow  that  falls. 

And  so  we  went,  'twas  in  the  Spring, 
I  wondered  how  the  birds  could  sing! 
I  saw  no  joy  in  anything 

Along  that  road  to  town! 
But  stop,   before  we  left,   that  day, 
She  smiled  and  laughed,   and  seemed  as  gay 
As  little  children  in  their  play, 

And  took  the  fiddle  down. 

t 

Yes,  put  the  old  bow  in  my  hand  — 
I  trembled,  Joe,   I  couldn't  stand; 
It  seemed  I  couldn't  keep  command, 

The  honest  truth  to  tell. 
I  sat  down  by  the  window,   though, 
And  played — somehow  —  I  scarcely  know, 
With  that  'ere  crooked,  time-worn  bow, 

The  tune  she  loved  so  well! 


The  summer  passed  and  winter  came; 
And  often,  Joe,   I  called  her  name, 
And  listened  for  her  voice,   the  same 

As  'in  the  days  before; 
Till  one  dark  night  of  wind  and  snow  — 
I  sat  where  you  are  sittin',  Joe — 
There  came  a  loud  and  ringin'  blow 

Right  there  against  the  door. 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE.  15 


I  let  'em  in.      "She's  gone!"  they  said; 
"What  gone?"  says  I,    "My  Betsy  dead?" 
But  Joe,   'twas  worse  than  death — she'd  fled 

From  out  the  'sylum's  wall! 
Alone,   out  in  the  blindin'   snow, 
My  poor  crazed  girl!     God  help  me,  Joe; 
But  how  I  cussed  'em  high  and  low  — 

I  cussed  'em  one  and  all. 


"Til  go,"   I  said,    "  I' 11  yfrzafher,  too, 
I  don't  want  help  from  sich  as  you, 
Go  back  to  town,  she'll  find  me  true, 

My  girl  that  went  so  wrong!" 
And  then — the  strangest  thing  of  all — 
I  saw  the  riddle  on  the  wall; 
Wrapped  bow  and  riddle  in  a  shawl, 

And  took  'em  both  along! 

My  horse  was  swift;  but  who  could  ride 
In  snow-drifts  pilin'   high  and  wide, 
And  'gainst  the  blindin'  storm  beside, 

And  darkness  everywhere? 
Somehow,  at  last,  we  seemed  to  take 
The  road  that  leads  straight  to  the  lake  — 
The  very  point  I  tried  to  make  — 

It  seemed  that  she'd  be  there! 

I  stopped,  and  shouted  loud  and  long; 

My  voice  seemed  weak,  the  storm  so  strong! 

I  called  my  girl  that  had  gone  wrong, 

My  Betsy,  gone  astray! 
And  Joe,   at  last  I  heard  a  cry! 
I  heard  her  voice,  so  close,  so  nigh, 
I  leaped  into  the  snow  breast  high, 

And  tried  to  break  the  way. 


16  BALLADS   OF    LIFE, 


And  then  her  voice  was  lost  again. 
I  called  and  shouted,   all  in  vain; 
And,  Joe,   I  think  my  own  weak  brain 

Was  crazed  —  I  couldn't  tell  — 
Leastwise,   I  took  that  fiddle,  Joe, 
And  in  the  storm  I  drew  the  bow, 
And  played  it — how  I'll  never  know  — 

That  tune  she  loved  so  well! 

And  didn't  she  answer,   singin',   too! 
And  comin'  toward  me  straight  and  true! 
I  played  the  old  tune  squarely  through, 

Until  she  touched  my  hand! 
Until  she  sank  upon  my  breast, 
Poor,  frozen  girl!      You  know  the  rest. 
My  Betsy  died  —  they  say  'twas  best, 

I've  tried  to  understand! 


Not  any  sum  in  solid  gold 

Would  buy  that  fiddle  cracked  and  old, 

Because  its  voice  so  surely  told 

My  Betsy  where  to  go. 
Ah,  well!   may  be  she  sings  that  song 
-  Up  there  where  people  don't  go  wrong; 
But,  Joe,   I'm  tired;    I've  watched  so  long 

That  grave  beneath  the  snow. 
MARCH,   1867. 


SLEEP  OF  THE  SIX  HUNDRED. 

O'ER  their  devoted  head, 
While  the  words  thundered, 
Snugly  and  heedlessly 

Snored  the  six  hundred. 


Boldly  he  spoke  and  well, 
All  on  deaf  ears  it  fell, 
Vain  was  his  loudest  yell, 
Volley'd  and  thundered. 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE.  19 


Great  was  the  preacher's  theme, 
Screwed  on  was  all  his  scheme; 
Neither  with  shout  nor  scream 
Could  he  disturb  the  dream 
Of  the  six  hundred. 


Terrors  to  right  of  them, 
Terrors  to  left  of  them, 
Terrors  in  front  of  them, 
Hell  itself  plundered 
Of  its  most  awful  things, 
All  those  unlawful  things 
Weak-minded  preachers  fling 
At  the  dumbfounded. 


Boldly  he  spoke  and  well, 
All  on  deaf  ears  it  fell, 
Vain  was  his  loudest  yell, 

Volley 'd  and  thundered; 
For  caring  —  the  truth  to  tell  — 
Neither  for  heaven  nor  hell, 

Snor'd  the  six  hundred. 

Still  with  redoubled  zeal, 

Still  he  spoke  onward  — 
And  in  the  wild  appeal, 
Striking  with  hand  and  heel, 
Making  the  pulpit  reel, 

Shaken  and  sundered; 
Called  them  the  Church's  foes, 
Threatened  with  endless  woes; 
Faintly  the  answer  rose  — 
Proof  of  their  sweet  repose — 
From  the  united  nose 
Of  the  six  hundred. 


•  BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


L' ENVOI. 

Sermons  of  near  an  hour, 
Too  much  for  human  power, — 
Prayers,  too,  made  to  match, 
(Extemporaneous  batch, 

Woefully  blundered). 
With  a  service  of  music, 
Fit  to  turn  every  pew  sick, 

Should  it  be  wondered  ? 

Churches  that  will  not  move 
Out  of  the  ancient  groove 

Through  which  they've  floundered; 
If  they  will  lay  behind, 
Still  must  expecl  to  find 
Hearers  of  such  a  kind 

As  the  six  hundred. 
1871. 


EVERMORE. 

I  BEHELD  a  golden  portal  in  the  visions  of  my  slumber, 

And  through  it  streamed  the  radiance  of  a  never-setting  day, 
While  the  angels  tall  and  beautiful,  and  countless  without   number, 

Were  giving  gladsome  greeting,  to  all  who  came  that  way; 
And  the  'gates,  forever  swinging,  made  no  grating,  no  harsh  ringing, 

But  melodious  as  the  singing'  of  one  that  we   adore. 
And  I  heard  a  chorus  swelling,  grand  beyond  a  mortal's  telling, 

And  the  burden  of  that  chorus  was  Hope's  glad  word  "Evermore." 

And  as  I  gazed  and  listened  came  a  slave  all  worn  and  weary, 
His  fetter  links  blood-crusted,  his  dark  brow  clammy,  damp;* 

His  sunken  eyes  gleamed  wildly,  telling  tales  of  horror  dreary, 
Of  toilsome  struggles  through  the  night  amid  the  fever  swamp. 


BALLADS  OF   LIFE. 


Ere  the  eye  had  time  for  winking,  ere  the  mind  had  time  for  thinking, 
An  angel  raised  th'e  sinking  wretch  and  off  his  fetters  tore. 

Then  I  heard  the  chorus  swelling,  grand  beyond  a  mortal's  telling, 
"Pass,  brother,  through  our  portal,  thou'rt  a  freeman  evermore. " 

And  as  I  gazed  and  listened,  came  a  mother  wildly  weeping: 

"I  have  lost  my  hopes  forever;  one  by  one  they  went  away; 
My  children  and  their  father,  the  cold  grave  hath  in  keeping, 

Life  is  but  lamentation,   I  know  not  night  nor  day!" 
Then  the  angel  softly  speaking:   "Stay  sister,    stay    thy    shrieking; 

Thou  shalt  find  those  thou  art  seeking,  beyond  that  golden  door." 
Then  I  heard  the  chorus  swelling,  grand  beyond  a  mortal's  telling: 

"Thy  children  and  their  father  shall  be  with  thee  evermore." 

And  as  I  gazed  and  listened  came  one  whom  desolation, 

Had  driven  like  a  helmless  bark  from  infancy's  bright  land; 
Who  ne'er  had  met  a  kindly  look  —  poor  outcast  of  creation. 

Who  never  heard  a  kindly  word,  nor  grasped  a  kindly  hand. 
"Enter  in;  no  longer  fear  thee;  myriad  friends  are  there  to  eheer  thee; 

Friends  always  to  be  near  thee  —  there  no  sorrow  sad  and  sore!" 
Then  I  heard  the  chorus  spelling,  grand  beyond  a  mortal's  telling, 

"Enter,  brother,  thine  are  friendship,  love  and  gladness  evermore." 

And  as  I  gazed  and  listened  came  a  cold,  blue-footed  maiden, 

With  cheeks  of  ashen  whiteness,  eyes  filled  with  lurid  light; 
Her  body  bent  with  sickness,   her  lone  heart  heavy  laden  — 

Her  home  had  been  the  roofless  street,  her  day  had  been  the  night. 
First  wept  the  angel  sadly,  then  smiled  the  angel  gladly, 

And  caught  the  maiden  madly  rushing  from  the  golden  door; 
Then  I  heard  the  chorus  swelling,  grand  beyond  a  mortal's  telling: 

"Enter,  sister,   pure  thou  shalt  be,  and  redeemed  for  evermore!" 

I  saw  the  toiler  enter,  to  rest  for  aye  from  labor, 
The  weary-hearted  exile  there  found  his  native  land; 

The  beggar  there  could  greet  the  king  as  an  equal  and  a  neighbor, 
Th,e  crown  had  left  the  kingly  brow,  the  staff  the  beggar's  hand; 


BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


And  the  gate,  forever  swinging,  made  no  grating,  no  harsh  ringing, 
But  melodious  as  the  singing  of  one  that  we  adore; 

And  the  chorus  still  was  swelling,  grand  beyond  a  mortal's  telling, 
While  the  vision  faded  from  me,  with  the  glad  word,  ' '  Evermore. ' ' 


TIME  BRINGS  CHANGE.. 

THERE  was  a  child,  a  helpless  child, 
Full  of  vain  fears  and  fancies  wild, 
Who  often  wept  and  sometimes  smiled 

Upon  its  mother's  breast. 
Feebly  its  meanings  stammered  out, 
And  tottered  tremblingly  about, 
And  knew  no  wider  world  without 

His  little  home  of  rest. 

There  was  a  boy,  a  light-heart  boy, 
One  whom  no  trouble  could  annoy, 
Save  some  lost  sport  or  shattered  toy 

Forgotten  in  an  hour. 
No  dark  remembrance  troubled  him, 
No  future  fear  his  path  could  dim, 
But  joy  before  his  eyes  would  swim 

And  hope  rise  like  a  tower. 

There  was  a  man,  a  wary  man, 
Whose  bosom  nursed  full  many  a  plan 
For  making  life's  contracted  span 

A  path  of  gain  and  gold. 
And  how  to  sow  and  how  to  reap, 
And  how  to  swell  his  shining  heap, 
And  how  the  wealth  acquired  to  keep 

Secure  within  its  fold. 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE.  23 


There  was  an  old,  old  grey  haired  one, 
On  whom  had  four  score  winters  done 
Their  work  appointed,  and  had  spun 

His  thread  of  life  so  fine, 
That  scarce  its  thin  line  could  be  seen, 
And  with  the  slightest  touch,   I  ween, 
'Twotild  be  as  it  had  never  been, 

And  leave  behind  no  sign. 

And  who  were  they,  those  four  whom  fate 
Seemed  as  strange  contrasts  to  create, 
That  each  might  in  his  different  state 

The  other's  pathway  shun? 
I  tell  thee,  that  that  infant  vain, 
That  guileless  boy>   that  man  of  gain, 
That  grey  beard,  who  did  roads  attain 

So  various  —  they  were  one. 
MAY,   1878. 


LIFE. 

WE  build  our  puny  works  on  beds  of  sand, 
Gilding  the  roughness  with  a  film  of  gold, 

The  winds  loosed  from  the  hollow  of  His  hand, 
Sweep  o'er  the  temple,  and  the  tale  is  told. 

We  climb  the  rugged  steeps  of  earthly  fame, 
Leaving  sweet  blossoms  in  the  vale  below, 

And  learn  too  late  that  on  the  upper  height 
Is  the  cold  glitter  of  eternal  snow. 

We  watch  and  wait,  we  strive  and  hope  in  vain, 
For  full  fruition  of  our  happy  dream; 

The  mirage  springs  afresh,  still  further  on, 

The  golden  apples  are  not  what  they  seem. 


?4  BALLADS  .OF    LIFE. 


We  bear  our  crosses  with  too  loud  complaint, 

As  if  He  could  not  hear  who  bore  them  first, 

And  with  the  paths  wherein  our  footing  treads, 

With  stubborn  blindness,   oft  we  choose  the  worst. 

Yet  from  His  human  heart,   He  dropped  the  seed 
That  springs  eternal  in  the  deathless  soul, 

And  the  dim  Teachings  of  our  feeble  hands 

Are  blossoms  of  the  fruit  that  waits  the  goal. 

% 

And  in  the  tender,   erring  heart  He  made 
With  all  its  faults  and  burdens  of  regret, 

The  imprint  of  a  perfecl  life  is  traced, 

The  kingly  seal  upon  its  tablet  set. 
APRIL,   1878. 


i 
THE   OLD   MAN   IN   THE   STYLISH   CHURCH. 

WELL,  wife,   I've  been  to  church  to-day  —  been  to  a  stylish  one  — 
And  seein'   you  can't  go  from  home,   I'll  tell  you  what    was    done. 
You  would  have  been  surprised  to  see  what  I  saw  there  to-day, 
The  sisters  were  fixed  up  so  fine  they  hardly  bowed  to  pray. 

I  had  on  these  coarse  clothes  of  mine — not  much  the  worse  for  wear  — 
But  then  they  knew  I  wasn't  one  they  called  a  millionaire, 
So  they  led  the  old  man  to  a  seat  away  back  by  the  door, 
'Twas  bookless  and  uncushioned — a  reserved  seat  for  the  poor. 

Pretty  soon  in  came  a  stranger  with  a  gold  ring  and  clothing   fine, 
They  led  him  to  a  cushioned  seat  far  in  advance  of  mine. 
1  thought  that  wa'n't  exactly  right  to  seat  him  up  so  near, 
When  he  was  young,  and  I  was  old  and  very  hard  to  hear. 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE.  25 


But  then  there's  no  accountin'  for  what  some  people  do, 
The  finest  clothing  nowadays  of'n  gets  the  finest  pew, 
But  when  we  reach  that  blessed  home,  all  undefiled  by  sin, 
We'll  see  wealth  beggin'  at  the  gate,   while  poverty  goes  in. 

I  couldn't  hear  the  sermon,   I  sat  so  far  away, 

So  through  the  hours  of  service  I  could  only  "watch  and    pray;" 
Watch  the  doin's  of  the  Christians  sittin'  near  me  round  about; 
Pray  that  God  would  make  them  pure  within  as  they  were  pure  without. 

While  I  sat  there,  a-lookin'   upon  the  rich  and  great, 
I  kept  thinkin'  of  the  rich  man  and  the  beggar  at  his  gate; 
How,  by  all  but  dogs  forsaken,  the  poor  beggar's  form  grew  cold, 
And  the  angels  bore  his  spirit  to  the  mansions  built  of  gold. 

How  at  last  the  rich  man  perished,   and  his  spirit  took  its  flight 
From  the  purple  and  fine  linen  to  the  home  of  endless  night; 
There  he  learned,   as  he  stood  gazin'  at  the  beggar  in  the  sky, 
"It  isn't  all  of  life  to  live,  nor  all  of  death  to  die." 

I  doubt  not  there  were  wealthy  sires  in  that  religious   fold 
Who  went  up  from  their  dwellings  like  the  Pharisee  of  old, 
Then  returned  home  from  their  worship  with  a  head  uplifted  high, 
To  spurn  the  hungry  from  their  door  with  naught  to  satisfy. 


4 


Out,   out  with  such  professions!  they  are  doin'  more  to-day 
To  stop  the  weary  sinner  from  the  gospel's  shinin'  way, 
Than  all  the  books  of  infidels,  than  all  that  has  been  tried 
Since  Christ  was  born  in  Bethlehem — since  Christ  was  crucified. 

How  simple  are  the  words  of  God,  and  yet  how  very  grand, 
The  shells  in  ocean  caverns,  the  flowers  on  the  land, 
He  gilds  the  clouds  of  evenin'   with  the  goldlight  from  his  throne  — ~ 
Not  for  the  rich  man  only,   not  for  the  poor  alone. 


BALLADS   OF    LIFE. 


Then  why  should  man  look  down  on  man  because  of  lack  'of  gold  ? 
Why  seat  him  in  the  poorest  pew  because  his  clothes  are  old? 
A  heart  with  noble  motives,  a  heart  that  God  has  blest, 
May  be  beatin'   heaven's  music  'neath  that  faded  coat  and  vest. 

I'm  old — I  may  be  childish  —  but  I  love  simplicity, 

I  love  to  see  it  shinin'   in  a  Christian's  piety. 

Jesus  told  us  in  His  sermons,   in  Judea's  mountains  wild, 

He  that  wants  to  go  to  heaven  must  be  like  a  little  child. 

Our' heads  are  growin'.  gray,  dear  wife  —  our  hearts  are  beatin'  slow, 
In  a  little  while  the  Master  will  call  for  us  to  go; 
When  we  reach  the  pearly  gateways,   and  look  in  with  joyful  eyes, 
We'll  see  no  stylish  worship  in  the  temple  of  the  skies. 


I   WAS   THINKING   AS   WE   SAT   HERE. 

I  WAS  thinking  as  we  sat  here,   dear  wife, 

In  the  sunset's  golden  glow; 
Of  scenes  long  past  in  our  early  life, 

In  the  happy  long  ago. 
Could  I  have  my  wish  I  would  take  you  back, 

You  would  there  be  sitting  now; 
With  not  a  care  on  your  loving   heart, 

Nor  a  wrinkle  upon  your  brow. 

The  clock  of  Time  shonld  go  back  with  you, 

All  the  years  you  have  been  my  wife; 
Till  its  golden  hands  just  pointed  out, 

The  happiest  hour  of  your  life. 
I'd  wish  it  to  stop  at  that  glorious  time; 

The  clock  should  no  longer  run, 
You  would  not  be  sad,   and  sick,  and  old, 

If  to  wish  and  to  have  were  one. 


I  was  thinking  as  we  sat  here,  dear  wife, 
In  the  sunset's  golden  glow, 

Of  ?cenes  long  past  in  our  early  life, 
In  the  happy  long  ago. 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


I  would  wish  you  there  in  the  summer  woods, 

Near  your  native  sea-hide  town, 
Our  beautiful  boy  would  play  in  the  leaves, 

Or  search  for  the  nuts  so  brown. 
In  delight  you  would  play  and  sing  to  him, 

No  parent  under  the  sun 
Would  have  such  a  perfect  child  as  yours, 

If  to  wish  and  to  have  were  one. 

And  I  would  be  there  with  you.  dear  wife, 

In  the  old  home  by  the  sea, 
I  would  fly  to  you  as  the  wild  dove  flies, 

To  his  mate  in  the  forest  tree. 
Your  brothers  —  one  sleeps  in  the  ocean  deep, 

And  one  'neath  a  tropic  sun  — 
They'd  both  be  there,  young  manly  men, 

If  to  wish  and  to  have  were  one. 

I  would  have  no  toils,  you  would  have  no  pain, 

Hope  would  banish  all  future  dread. 
Parents  and  brothers  would  live  again, 

And  our  boy  would  not  be  dead. 
J  feel  it  all  will  come  right  at  last, 

When  our  toils  and  tasks  are  done, 
We  shall  dwell  together  in  some  good  world, 

Where  to  wish  and  to  have  are  one. 


A   CHILD'S   IDEA. 

WHAT  beautiful  beds  the  clouds  would  make! 

Softer,  than  daintiest  down, 
Fold  upon  fold  of  delicate  tints, 

And  gold  like  a  monarch's  crown. 


30  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


If  I  were  an  angel,   I  would  choose 

The  one  of  silvery  white, 
With  crimson  shading  it  just  enough, 

To  keep  me  warm  in  the  night. 

And  when  at  eve,   I  had  said  my  prayers  — 
For  I  suppose  angels  pray  — 

I  would  cuddle  me  down  in  my  cosy  bed, 
And  sleep  till  the  "peep  o'   day."' 


BE  TRUE  TO  THYSELF. 

BE  true  to  thyself,  in  the  right  never  falter, 

Though  others  prove  false  as  a  mirage  in  air; 
Never  swerve  from  the  good,  and  time  never  can  alter 

Thy  peace  by  its  sorrows, — thy  love  by  its  care. 
/ 

Be  true  to  thyself,   cherish  every  affection 

That's  gentle,  and  noble,  and  truthful,   and  pure, 

And  the  strength  of  the  Highest  shall  be  thy  protection, 
So  long  as  thy  love  for  thy  God  shall  endure. 

<    . 
BE  true  to  thyself,  though  the  past,   with  its  sorrow, 

And  all  its  lost  hopes,  are  remembered  by  thee: 
Though  the  present  be  lonely,  a  brighter  to-morrow 

May  herald  a  future  from  sorrow  set  free. 

Be  true  to  thyself,   and  thy  heart  will  forever 
Be  true  to  all  others;  all  truth  is  sublime; 

Be  true  to  thy  God,   and  his  goodness  shall  never 
Desert  thee,   through,  all  the  mutations  of  time. 
MAY,   1878. 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE.  31 


THE   DESTINED   WAY. 

IF  to  our  fierce  rebellious  cries, 

Should  guiding  powers  give"  way, 
The  flowery  path  that  before  us  lies, 

So  tempting  and  smooth,   might  stray 
Into  treacherous  marshes  or  deserts  drear, 

Or  caverns  dark  where  we'd  cower  with  fear, 
If  perchance  the  voice  of  God  we'd  hear, 

Abroad  at  the  close  of  day. 

It  is  not  always  the  pa\hs  that  seem 

The  smoothest  that  lead  to  rest; 
It  is  not  always  the  way  we  deem 

Most  pleasant  that  proves  the  best; 
For  the  path  we  must  tread,  but  fain  would  shun 

Because  of  its  roughness,  may  be  the  one 
That  shall  lead  our  feet  at  the  set  of  sun 

To  the  city  of  the  blest. 
1867. 


THE   LION'S   BRIDE. 

(FROM  THE  GERMAN). 

FOR  the  bridal  arrayed,  with  the  wreath  in  her  hair. 
The  keeper's  young  daughter,  so  rosy  and  fair, 
In  the  lion's  den  stepped,   with  fawning  and  play; 
At  the  feet  of  his  mistress,  the  king  of  beasts  lay. 

The  monarch  beast  once  so  intractable,  wild, 
At  his  mistress  now  gazes  so  knowing  and  mild; 
The  maiden  so  tender  and  winsome  there  stands, 
Strokes  the  mane  of  the  lion,  tears  fall  on  her  hands. 


32  BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


"In  the  days  that  are  past  we  were  happy  and  gay, 
Like  play-fellows  fond,  like  children  at  play, 
We  each  other  loved,  each  to  other  was  kind; 
But  the  days  of  our  childhood  we're  leaving  behind. 

"Thy  head  so  majestic,  thy  billowy  mane, 
How  kingly  thou  lookest,   I'll  stroke  thee  again: 
Time  changes  thou  seest,  thou' It  find  me  no  more, 
The  child  of  the  past  or  child-like  as  of  yore. 

'"  Oh,  were  I  a  child,  and  could  stay  here  with  thee, 

My  trusty,  brave,  honest,  old  fellow;  we'd  be 

So  happy;  but  I  must  now  go  far  away, 

To  the  land  of  the  stranger,  with  strangers  to  stay. 

"He  met  me,  he  wooed  me,  he  said  I  was  fair, 
He  won  me,   'tis  done,  see  the  wreath  in  my  hair. 
My  early  companion  with  grief  in  my  heart, 
With  tears  in  my  eyes,  farewell,  we  must  part. 

• 

"  Understandest  thou  all?     Why  looking  so  stern, 

I  am  calm,  in  earnest,  be  calm  thou  in  turn, 

There,  he's  coming  the  one  with  whom  life  I  shall  spend, 

This  last  kiss  I  give  thee,  farewell  my  old  friend." 

As  the  maiden  rose  up  he  looked  sadly  and  grim, 
The  cage,   it  was  shaking,   he  trembled  each  limb, 
And  when  at  the  entrance  the  bridegroom  he  'spied, 
O,  horrors!  he  grasped  at  the  poor  trembling  bride. 

At  the  door  of  the  cage  he  stood  as  a  guard, 
He  lashed  his  tail  madly  and  loudly  he  roared; 
She  implores,   she  commands,   she  threatens;  'tis  vain, 
He  stands  at  the  gate,   he  is  shaking  his  mane. 


BALLADS   OF    LIFE.  35 


Outside  shrieks  of  terror  were  rising  from  all, 
t The  bridegroom  cried,    "Quick,  bring  gun,  powder  and  ball, 
The  terrors  to-day  his  life-blood  shall  assuage;" 
The  lion,  excited,  was  foaming  with  rage. 

4 

At  this  .moment  the  girl  sprang  swift  for  the  door, 
The  lion  transformed  siezed  her  wildly  and  tore 
That  beautiful  form,  so  lately  caressed, 
Lies  bloody,  distorted  and  dragged  in  the  dust. 

And  as  if  forgotten  the  blood  he  had  shed, 

The  lion  laid  gloomily  down  by  the  dead, 

He  lay  there  so  sunken,  by  grief  so  oppressed, 

Till  the  bridegroom  a  rifle-ball  sent  through  his  breast. 


/WANTED. 

THE  world  wants  men — large-hearted  men, 
Whose  hearts  are  raised  from  self  above; 

Who'll  join  the  chorus  and  prolong 
The  psalm  of  labor  antd  of  love. 

The  age  wants  heroes,  who  shall  dare 
To  stand  for  right  when  friends  are  few, 

To  hurl  down  wrong  from  its  high  seat; 
To  the  oppressed  firm  friends  and  true. 

The  time  wants  scholars  who  shall  bear 

Opinion  to  a  loftier   place; 
Shall  shape  the  fate  of  dubious  years, 

And  herald  in  the  dawn  of  peace. 


36  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


Heaven  wants  fresh  souls  —  not  shrivelled  ones, 
Fresh  souls,  my  brother,  give  thine  own; 

So  shalt  thou  prove  thine  heritage 
And  triumph  when  thy  work  is  done. 

So  shalt  thou  be  what  scholars   should, 
And  walk  the  earth  with  hero's  tread; 

So  shalt  thou  stand  amidst  the  good, 

With  God's  bright  aureole  round  thy  head. 

Thy  heart  shall  seem  a  thousand  hearts, 
Each  heart  with  myriad  raptures  full, 

Rich  with  the  wealth  that  heaven  imparts,. 

The  jewel  of  a  ransomed  soul. 
DECEMBER,   1878. 


SOLILOQUY  OF  A   LOAFER. 

SETH  GRIMES  and  I  were  classmates  oncer 
And  "I  was  rich  and  he  was  poor; 

I  had  —  alas!  it  was  my  bane!  — 

The  wealth  a  father  laid  in  store. 


Seth  toiled  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  night,. 
Until  his  hands  were  hard  and  brown, 

To  pay  his  board  and  tailor's  bills, 

While  I  was  lounging  round  the  town — 

But  mostly  in  the  dry  goods  store 
To  see  the  pretty  girls  come  in, 

Or  smoking  with  my  jolly  peers, 

Who  are  the  fools  of  "Auld  Lang  Syne..'" 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE.  57 


The  village  belles  looked  proud  and  fierce 
If  Seth  made  e'en  the  least  advance; 

And  none,  from  Inez  down  to  Poll, 

Would  be  his  partner  in  the  dance. 


But  I,   half  drunk  with  sparkling  port, 
Waltzed  with  the  fairest  of  the  fair; 

And  "high  born"   Inez'   proud  papa 

Once  asked  what  my  intentions  were! 

Thus  stood  Seth  Grimes  and  I  at  school; 

And  yet  on  exhibition  day, 
Although  the  ladies  praised  me  much, 

He,  somehow,  bore  the  prize  away. 

In  brief,  through  long  and  weary  nights, 

He  stored  his  mind  with  knowledge  rare, 

And  I — learned  how  to  guzzle  wine, 
And  how  to  pick  a  good  cigar. 

Some  three  and  thirty  years  have  passed 
Since  we  on  life's  great  sea  set  sail; 

And  lo!  the  beam  is  sadly  turned 

In  fortune's  strange  uneven  scale. 

My  vaunted  wealth  has  taken  wings 

And  flown  away  to  parts  unknown'; 

Indeed — with  sorrow  be  it  said  — 
I'm  on  the  poor- list  of  the  town. 

While  Seth,  who  toiled  to  pay  his  way, 
Until  his  hands  were  hard  and  brown, 

Is  now  receiving  his  reward 
As  Senator  at  Washington. 


BALLADS   OF    LIFE. 


A   TERRIBLE  TERRIER. 

*' FOUND,   on  Saturday  last,  between 
Robinson  Street  and  Jackson  Green, 
A  Terrier  Dog;  owner's  name 
Not  on  the  collar;  owner  of  same 
Can  have  by" — etc. 

Yes,   I  had  found  a  dog, 

One  night,  when  November's  drizzle  and  fog' 
Were  above  and  around,   and  under  foot, 
I  stumbled  over  a  draggled  brute  — 
Kicked  it  away,   and  hurried  on, 
Thinking  the  muddy  mop  was  gone; 
It  wasn't;  I  tried  to  dodge  it;  no  — 
Wherever  I  went  the  pup  would  go; 
So  the  only  method  I  could  devise 
Was  to  take  it  home  —  and  advertise. 

A  week  went  past,   and  nobody  came; 

A  month — two  months;  there  wasn't  a  claim; 

And  so  I  determined  at  last  to  sell  it, 

And  having  determined,  needs  must  tell  it — 

Ass  that  I  was  —  to  the  women  folk; 

With  one  unanimous  voice  they  spoke: 

"What!  sell  wee  doggie,  the  little  pet! 

And  hadn't  I  come  to  love  it  yet? 

The  playful  doggie!     And.  somebody 'd  get  it 

Who'd  scold  and  beat  it,  instead  of  pet  it. 

Surely,   I  hadn't  the  heart — I  couldn't; 

Besides,  it  was  really  wrong;  I  shouldn't!" 

When  women  say  shouldn't,  always  give  in; 
\  always  do;  it  saves  my  skin. 


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BALLADS   OF   LIFE.  41 


We  kept  the  dog,  and  I  rather  guess 

That  a  monkey  insane  would  have  plagued  us  less; 

It  ate  the  butter;  it  stole  the  meat; 

It  trod  on  books  with  its  dirty  feet; 

It  fought  with  the  cat;  it  broke  the  bowls; 

It  grubbed  the  garden;  it  chased  the  fowls; 

It  leaped  on  the  board  when  I  played  at  chess; 

I'd  to  pay  for  my  wife's  sublimest  dress; 

All  mischief  that  ever  dogs  had  done 

Was  bundled  up  in  that  single  one. 

But  the  crowning  mischief  was  at  hand: 

We  gave  a  dinner,  and  gave  it  grand; 

It  pinched  and  plagued  me  for  half  a  year 

Getting  things  gorgeous  and  good — and  dear, 

For  there  was  coming,  in  all  his  state, 

A  live  Senator,  awfully  great. 

The  day  of  our  dinner  came  at  last, 

And  the  dinner  without  a  hitch  went  past; 

We  were  terribly  anxious  not  to  offend, 

For  my  wife  had  said,    "We  might  make  a  friend  — 

Just  think  of  a  Senator  such  as  he!" 

But  destiny  willed  that  it  shouldn't  be. 

We  were  talking;  and  there  the  Senator  sat, 
Speaking  like  Justice,  and  heard  like  Fate, 
But  beginning  to  thaw,  like  a  man  who  had  dined, 
When  that  cursed  terrier  came  up  behind; 
As  on  balanced  chair  the  Senator  swung, 
Caught  at  the  coat  that  so  temptingly  hung; 
Looked  round  with  a  look  indescribably  knowing, 
And  pulled;  the  Senator  felt  himself  going; 
Gave  a  great  start,  and  clutched  at  the  table, 
To  keep  from  falling,  but  wasn't  able; 
And  table-cloth  over,  and  Senator  under, 
Down  he  went,  with  .a  crash  like  thunder. 


42  BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


Then  stared  the  gentles  and  shrieked  the  dames; 

I  called  the  dog  some  unprintable  names. 

It  stared  at  the  mischief  it  had  done, 

Half  in  astonishment,   half  in  fun. 

Then — horror!  —  before  the  Senator  rose, 

It  went,   and,   quite  gravely,  smelt  of  his  nose; 

Somebody  tittered;  more  titters  came   after, 

And  then  it  ended  in  roars  of  laughter. 

What  endless  methods  we  tried  to  assuage 

The  fallen  Senator's  smothered  rage; 

He  turned  it  qff  with  a  careless  joke; 

But  his  smile  was  a  quivering  grin  as  he  spoke. 

He  sat  in  his  chair  in  most  solemn  pose, 

And  ever  he  furtively  rubbed  his  nose. 

The  party  broke  up;  the  Senator  went, 
And  for  good;  in  vain  invitations  were  sent; 
In  vain  .we  visited;  told  our  pain, 
And  flattered,   by  proxy  —  all  in  vain. 
We  tried  him  on  every  conceivable  tack, 
But  the  lost  Senator  never  came   back. 

So  all  our  hopes  of  greatness  were  reft; 

But  one  consoling  revenge  was  left; 

I  kicked  the  terrier  out,   and  swore 

I  would  never  be  plagued  with  a  terrier  more. 


A   STRANGE   AFFAIR. 

As  I  walked  one  evening  over  the  lea, 
A  very  strange  (?)  incident  came  to  me  — 
A  youth  I  saw  near  a  woodland  bight, 
Up  and  down  he  rode  in  the  evening  light. 


The  moon  shone  calm  on  that  simm-r  scene  — 
Now  guess  if  you  can  w'.iat  did  all  this  mean  ? 


BALLADS   OF    LIFE.  45 


The  wild  birds  flew  o'er  the  lovely  spot, 

The  young  man  oblivious  heeded  not, 

But  he  blew  his  horn  by  the  forest  green; 

'Twas  strange,  who  will  tell  me  what  could  that  mean? 

And  as  I  continued  farther  to  roam, 

A  maid's  sweet  voice  sang  a  song* of  home: 

For  a  lonely  maid  in  a  tiny  bark, 

Went  floating  by  in  the  coming  dark. 

While  the  fishes  around  her  sportive  play, 

But  what  did  the  maid  in  the  evening  gray? 

She  sang  a  song  by  the  forest  green; 

Now  tell,   if  thou  canst,  what  could  that  mean? 

And  as  I  returned  in  the  evening  fall, 
The  strangest  (?)  incident  happened  of  all; 
For  a  horse  without  rider  stood  near  by, 
And  an  empty  boat  on  the  beach  was  nigh. 
And,   passing  the  .grove,   what  heard  I  there? 
A  walking,  laughing,  whispering  pair, 
The  moon  shone  calm  on  that  summer  scene; 
Now  guess,   if  you  can,  what  did  all  this  mean? 


O    HEART   OF   MINE! 

O  heart 
Of  mine,   look  up; 

Thy  part 
Hath  been  to  sup 

The  cup 
Of  sorrow  dry; 

Look  up 
To  clearer  sky. 


46  BALLADS   OF    LIFE. 


A  haze, 
Was  round  about; 

A  maze 
And  no  way  out. 

•   A  life 
Was  on  the  wane; 

And  strife 
With  God  was  vain. 


And  yet, 
O  heart  of  mitie, 

Forget  ; 
Cease  to  repine. 

Thy  fears 
Cease  to  recall; 

And  tears, 
Sa  idle  all. 


Sad  heart  ••  ,", 

Of  mine,  be  brave; 

Thy  smart 
No ( power  could  save; 

And  yet, 
Though  crushed  and  bowedr 

Forget 
Not,  thou  art  proud. 

"And  yet"- 
My  heart  replied  — 

' '  Forget  ? 
Oh  no!  My   pride 

Shall  be 
That  God  hath  still, 

With  me 
More  power  than  will." 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE.  47 


THE   HAPPY   ISLANDS. 

HE  roams  about  the  town  in  dark  or  day, 

An  old  man  with  bent  form,  and  long  gray  hair, 
Whose  eyes  seem  looking  far  and  far  away, 

As  if  in  hope  of  seeing  something  there 
Which  he  has  looked  for  long,  but  cannot  find. 

Among  the  busy  crowd,   he  heeds  it  not, 
And  comes  and  goes,  to  all  our  pleasures  blind. 

The  world  we  live  in  he  has  quite  forgot. 


Sometimes  he  stops  you  in  the  hurrying  throng, 

And  asks  of  you,    "Why  do  we  sail  so  far? 
I  know,  full  well,  the  vessel's  course  is  wrong, 

For  further  south  the  Happy  Islands  are. 
But  we  -are  near  them,  for  last  night  I  heard 

The  sound  of  voices  coming  from  their  shore, 
And  caught  the  scent  of  balm,  and  one  bright  bird 

Flew  homeward,  over  us,  to  roam  no  more. 


"I  almost  thought  I  saw  them,  in  the  dawnr 

Fair  as  the  sun-flushed  peaks  of  Paradise, 
But  when  the  day  broke  fully  they  were  gone; 

More  to  the  south  the  land  we  seek  for  lies. 
Pray  God  they  turn  the  vessel  ere  too  late! 

Must  we  sail  by,  and  miss  them  as  before? 
They  make  mistakes,  and  lay  it  all  to  fate 

That  we  have  never  reached  the  longed-for  shore." 

And  as  he  talks  to  you,  the  old  man's  eyes 

Are  looking  southward,  where  he  hopes  to  see 

The  purple  peaks,  crowned  with  strange  glory,  rise 
'  Neath  fairer  skies  than  those  of  Italy. 


BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


No  sight  of  land  to  glad  his  weary  eyes! 

"Ah!  we  have  missed  them,  as  so  oft  before? 
And  oh!  we  were  so  near,  so  near!"  he  cries. 

"Must  we  sail  on  and  on  forever  more?" 

Where  are  our  Happy  Islands  ?     Must  we  sail 

Forever  past  them,   when  so  near  they  seem  ? 
Blow  from  the  shores  we  left,   oh,  favoring  gale, 

And  waft  us  to  the  shores  that  haunt  each  dream. 
Oh,   voyagers  with  me,   pray  God  we  find 

The  shores  we  seek,  and  do  not  pass  them  by! 
Oh,  blow  us  further  south,   inconstant  wind, 

For  there,  we  think,  the  Happy  Islands  lie! 


THE   THEOLOGICAL   DISPUTE. 

Written  at  the  time  of  the  dispute  between  Rev.  Dr.  Pattonand  Prof.  Swing,  of  Chicago. 

"You  must  keep,"   quoth  the  stricl  Dr.   Patton, 
"The  straight  Presbyterian  hat  on." 

"I  shall  do  no  such  thing," 

Said  the  liberal  Swing: 
"Sooner  perish  than  always  feel  that  on." 

"Then  vengeance,"  cried  stiff  Dr.   Patton, 
'"Will  spring,  as  a  cat  does  a  rat  on; 

For  the  charges  I  bring, 

Will  surely  make  you  Swing!" 
Then  straightway  his  high  horse  he  gat  on. 

The  council  then  called  by  bold  Patton, 
The  subject  had  many  a  chat  on; 
But  the  charges  fell  flat, 
And  so  did  the  hat, 
Which  the  council  in  wisdom  then  sat  on. 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


THE   TIDE   OF   LIFE. 

• 
ALREADY  on  this  ancient  earth, 

Numberless  peoples  here  have  dwelt; 
And  offerings  vast  to  gods  been  given, 
Around  those  altars  myriads  knelt. 


In  days  to  come  religious  souls, 
To  God  shall  fairer  altars  rear; 

And  other  pains  and  sorrows  come, 

And  other  hopes  men's  hearts  endear. 


I  am  not  dazed, —  with  loving  looks, 
Time's  awful  whirl  I  gaze  upon; 

Midst  varying  tribes  and  changing  realms, 
The  stream  of  life  flows  grandly  on. 


I  know  that  ne'er  a  day-dawn  glimmered, 
But  gladdened  some  poor  lonely  h^art, 

That  never  frost  by  spring  was  followed, 

But  caused  some  sweet  glad  song  to  start. 


From  love  of  power,  of  right,  of  woman, 

Vast  schemes  are  formed,  inventions  rise- 

I  know  that  in  a  woman's  kisses, 

A  strength  for  nobleness  there  lies. 


The  sailor  leaves  his  home  and  darlings, 
For  hopes  of  wealth  beyond  the  sea,*: 

The  kiss  of  the  laborer's  wife  at  morn, 
Inspires  with  joy  the  livelong  day. 


50  BALLADS   OF    LIFE. 


I  know  the  sky  in  every  zone 

Is  sometimes  dark,   then  smiles  so  bright. 
On  starry  constellations  all, 

Believing  eyes  look  up  at  night. 

Thus  ever  I  behold  the  same, 

In. every  human  breast  'tis  found; 

We  brothers  are  in  every  realm, 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  wide  world  round. 

A  jot  in  vast~creation's  chain, 

That  binds  the  past  and  future  sphere, 
I  snatch  from"*out  Time's  rolling  surge, 

The  pearl-drop  of  existence  here. 


TO   AX   OLD   TIME   FRIEND. 

WHEN  I  met  thee,  gentle  sister,   in  the  days  of  long  ago, 

This  world  of  our  was  fairer  than  it  seemeth  now1,   I    trow; 

The  meadow  grass  was  greener,   the  sky  a  deeper  blue, 

The  stars  of  heaven  seemed  brighter  —  brighter  every  drop  of  dew. 

The  shining  rills  and  rivers,   sung  a  softer  melody, 
As  they  went  arrayed  in  diamonds,   to  their  bridal  with  the  sea; 
The  birds  made  sweeter  singing  midst  the    summer-scented    leaves, 
Richer  gold  and  crimson  curtains  hung  around  the  dying  eaves. 

The  winds  dropped  fonder  kisses  on  the  lips  of  fairer  flowers, 
And  love  wove  fairy  garlands,   down  the  pathway  of  the  hours; 
The  frosts  and  fnows  of  winter  overflowed  with  joy  and  glee, 
There  was  laughter  in  the  raincirops,  there  was  laughter  in  the  sea. 


The  k|gs  of  the  labDrer's  wife  at  morn, 
Inspires  with  joy  the  livelong  day. 


BALLADS   OF  OFE.  53 


0  the  charm,   the  joy  of  living,   iti  the  glory  and  the  glow, 
Of  the  days  we  left  behind  us,  in  the  bloom  of  long  ago; 
The  future  may  be  pleasant,  but  it  never  can  repay 

The  freshness,  and  the  beauty,  that  .the  past  has  swept  away. 

We  may  understand  in  heaven,  all  life's  sorrows,  all  its  cost, 
We  may  find  amidst  the  angels,  the  loved  ones  we  have  lost; 
But  will  they  wear  the  semblance,  of  the  same  dear  forms  they  worfe, 
When  they  faded  from  our  vision  to  seek  the  hither  shore? 

Shall  we  know  them  by  their  voices,  by  their  faces  still  so  dear, 
Will  they  clasp  our  hands  and  greet  us,  as  they  used  to  greet  us  here? 
Faith  answers  to  my  yearning,    ' '  In  some  blessed  world  above, 
Thy  heart  shall  find  its  treasures,  by  the  instincts  of  its  love." 

So  in  God's  good  grace  believing,   I  trust  and  wander  on, 
Through  the  shadows  of  the  twilight,  to  the   glories    of  the  dawn:; 
But,  sometimes,  in  my  dreaming  comes  a  soft  and  soothing  strain, 
Trembling  from  the  walls  of  heaven,   I  know  the  sweet  refrain. 

1  hear  again  the  footsteps  that  may  come  no  more  below, 
And  listen  to  the  voices  of  the  happy  long  ago; 

Thus  my  weary  heart  is  rested  in  the  vision  land  of  sleep, 
One  bright,   delicious  moment,  but,  alas,  it  wakes  to  weep. 

O,  the  sky  has  lost  its  sunshine,  trie  stars  are  dim  and  cold, 
And  the  world,  to  me  in  seeming,   is  growing  gray  and  old, 
The  fancy  that  beguiled  me  wears  a  fetter  on  her  wing, 
And  the  harp  I  touched  to  music,   has  many  a  broken  string. 

May  thine,   O,  gentle  lady,  be  a  brighter,  better  way, 
May  Hope  still  walk  beside  thee  as  down  flowery  paths  of  May;- 
May  it  never  faint,  or  fail  thee  in  the 'hottest  hours  'of  noon, 
But  cheer  and  comfort,  as  it  did,   in  the  balmy  days  of  June. 


54  BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 

May  storms  ne'er  shade  thy  spirit,   nor  mildew  stain  thy  flowers, 
May  sweetest  birds  keep  singing  amid  life's  summer  bowers; 
May  joy  e'er  dwell  with  duty,  peace  sit  beside  thy  door, 
Whate'er  the  past  behind  thee,  may  the  days  be  bright  before. 

Yet  the  fairest  rose  that  bloometh,  some  touch  of  blight  will    bear, 
The  strongest  heart  will  sometimes  faint,  borne  down  by  grief  or  care; 
Life's  sweetest  cup  is  mingled  with  bitterest  drops  of  gall, 
And  dreary,  rainy  days  will  come  upon  the  paths  of  all. 

Bui:  if  all  that  seemeth  lovely,   unselfish,,  pure  and  good, 
Respectful,  true  and  tender,  in  full-orbed  womanhood; 
Might  win  the  fairest  human  lot  our  Father  could  assign, 
That  peace,   that  joy,   that  portion  fair,   would  certainly  be  thine. 


A  DAUGHTER'S  LOVE  AT  FOURTEEN  YEARS. 

How  majestic  he  looks,  his  fine  light  hair, 

I  would  with  no  one  exchange, 
Like  the  floss  of  silk  so  soft  and  clear, 

His  locks  in  ringlets  arranged. 
Oft  I  stroke  them  and  then  he  smiles  so  calm, 

And  "calls  me  his  darling  Grace; 
They  are  not  black,  nor  gold  nor  brown, 

Then  what  is  the  shade,  now  guess? 

His  bearing,   his  looks  are  those  of  a  king, 

His  majesty  goes  to  my  heart; 
And  when  he  frowns  I  tremble  with  fear, 

And  sometimes  the  tear-drops  start. 
Again  his  features  light  up  with  a  smile, 

As  cheery  as  conscience   clear; 
Then  I  even  love  on  the  stool  to  kneel, 

And  bathe  his  hands  with  a  tear. 


IX 


Sometimes  in  the  evening's  golden  haze, 
At  the  garden  gate  Itstand; 

I  see  him  coming  amid  the  trees, 
And_I  go  and  take  his  hand. 


I  f 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE.  57 


I  awoke  this  morn  .at  the  earliest  dawn, 

In  the  sun's  early  light  I  hied, 
And  joyfully  skipping  took  my  way 

To  the  banks  by  the  fountain's  side. 
I  strawberries  found  like  rubies  bright, 

See  how  in  the  basket  they  smile; 
I'll  place  them  'neath  his  plate  out  of  sight, 

FOP  he'll  dine  in  a  little  while, 

Sometimes  in  the  evening's  golden  haze, 

At  the  garden  gate  I  stand; 
I  see  him  coming  amid  the  trees, 

And  I  go  and  take  his  hand; 
He  calls  me  his  joy,  his  hope,   his  pride, 

Ofttimes  he  gives  me  a  kiss; 
For  he  is  my  father  so  true  and  tried, 

And  I  am  his  darling  Grace. 


A   FALLEN   ONE'S   LAMENT. 

Where  is  the  promise  of  my  years, 

Once  written  on  my  brow? 
Ere  errors,  agonies  and  fears 
Brought  with  them  all  that  speaks  in  tears, 
Ere  I  had  sunk  beneath  my  peers? 

Where  sleeps  that  promise  now? 

Naught  lingers  to  redeem  those  hours, 

Still,  still  to  memory  sweet! 
The  flowers  that  bloomed  in  sunny  bowers 
Are  withered  all,  and  evil  towers 
Supreme  above  her  sister  powers 

Of  sorrow  and  deceit. 


58  BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


I  look  along  the  columned  years 

And  see  life's  riven  fane, 
Just  where  it  fell,  amid  the  jeers 
Of  scornful  lip's,  whose  mocking  sneers- 
Forever  hiss  within  my  ears, 
To  break  the  sleep  of  pain. 

I  can  but  own  my  life  is  vain, 

A  desert  void  of  peace; 
I  missed  the  goal  I  sought  to  gain, 
I  missed  the  measure  of  the  strain 
That  lulls  Fame's  fever  in  the  brain, 
And  bids  Earth's  tumult  cease. 

Myself!  alas  for  theme  so  poor, 

A  theme  but  rich  in  fear; 
I  stand  a  wreck  on  Error's  shore, 
A  speclre  not  within  the  door, 
A  houseless  shadow  evermore, 

An  exile  lingering  here! 
1867. 


THE   SEVEN   AGES   OF   WOMAN. 

INFANCY. 

FIRST  soft  and  helpless,  innocent  and  mild, 
Smiles  in  her  nurse's  arms  the  female  child; 
Fresh  from  her  Maker's  hands,  all  pure  and  fair,. 
Unstained  by  sin,  unruffled  yet  by  care; 
A  stranger  in  this  world  of  ceaseless  strife, 
Lovely  and  passionless  her  dawn  of  life. 


She  too  will  be  mamma,  and  lull  to  rest 
The  mimic  baby  on  her  infant  breast ; 
She  too  will  drese,  will  cherish  and  sustain, 
And  guard  her  darling  from  distress  and  pain. 


BALLADS   OF    LIFE.  61 


CHILDHOOD. 

Next  see  her  seated  at  her  mother's  feet, 
With  eyes  upraised,  the  glance  of  love  to  meet; 
Speech  partially  unlocked,  in  silvery  tone 
She  now  essays  to  make  her  wishes  known; 
Now  to  explain  her  doubtful  meaning,  tries 
With  mingled  eloquence  of  lips  and  eyes; 
Here  the  first  sorrows  of  the  child  begin  — 
The  slumbering  passions  waken  from  within; 
Each  in  its  turn  its  growing  strength  reveals, 
Anger,  and  love,  and  grief,  she  keenly  feels. 
She  too  will  be  mamma,  and  lull  to  rest 
The  mimic  baby  on  her  infant  breast; 
She  too  will  dress,  will  cherish  and  sustain, 
And  guard  her  darling  from  distress  and  pain. 
While  plain  to  all,  yet  to  herself  unknown, 
The  future  mother  in  each  acl:  is  shown. 
With  graver  look  and  melancholy  air 
She  cons  her  lessons  with  reluclant  care. 
The  book,  the  pen,  the  needle,  all  engage 
The  cares  and  troubles  of  the  second  stage. 

I 

MAIDENHOOD. 

A. third  advances  —  plays  and  tasks  are  past, 
And  life's  sweet  summer  brightly  dawns  at  last; 
Spring's  lovely  buds  expand  to  fairest  flowers, 
And  hope's  enchantment  gilds  the  sunny  hours. 
And,   blind  to  all  its  shoals,   and  storms,  and  strife, 
She  enters  on  the  treacherous  waves  of  life. 
Ah!  sweet,  confiding  season!  o'er  your  bloom 
Why  should  the  blight  of  sorrow  cast  a  gloom! 
The  false  will  mock,  the  wicked  treat  with  scorn 
The  noblest  virtues  which  that  life  adorn; 
The  crowd  shall  mark  with  cold,  invidious  gaze, 
And  those  will  trample  who  should  help  to  raise, 


62  BALLADS   OF    LIFE. 


Till  from  the  freezing  glance  of  heartless  pride 
Its  fair  endowment's  slighted  worth  will  hide, 
Or  bitterer  far!  perchance  is  doomed  to  prove 
The  venomed  shafts  of  unrequited  love. 
At  first  her  gentle  heart  by  slow  degrees 
Listens  to  love's  appeal  —  the  field,   the  trees, 
All  nature  seems  in  loveliest  aspect  dressed. 
Is  there  a  purer  bliss  we  mortals    claim 
Than  lovers'  walk  in  the  calm  vesper  time  ? 
O,  happy  hours!  when  free  from  carking  care, 
Eden  returns  to  bless  the  young  and  fair. 
She  loves  the  moonlight  and  the  evening  hour, 
The  river's  margin  and  the  forest  bower; 
There  wrapt* in  musing  she  delights  to  stray, 
And  nurse  the  dream  that  o'er  her  soul  has  sway. 
Sometimes  'tis  hers,  by  struggling  pangs  oppress' d, 
To  hide  the  thorns  that  rankle  in  her  breast, 
With  dying  hopes  to  combat  thronging  fears, 
And  find  a  sad  relief  in  gushing  tears. 
This  cannot  last,  and  time  with  noiseless  wing 
Sweeps  o'er  her  bosom  and  allays  its  sting, 
And  other  hopes  and  calmer  feelings  brings. 


WIFEHOOD. 

Thus  pass  the  first  three  stages  of  her  life: 
A  fourth  succeeds  and  sees  her  now  a  wife; 
Yet  not  perchance  of  him  who  taught  her  heart 
Its  earliest  love,   or  caused  its  keenest  smart. 
Forgetful  of  the  wrong  that  has  been  given, 
When  happily  wed  she  makes  of  home  a  heaven. 
Man's  nurse  in  sickness  and  his  joy  in  health, 
His  aid  in  poverty,   his  pride  in  wealth. 
Her  heart  the  solace  when  his  wounded  mind 
Flies  for  relief  and  finds  it  ever  kind: 
Where,  when  all  fail  him,  he  can  still  confide, 


There  wrapt  in  musing  she  delights  to  stray, 
And  nurse  the  dream  that  o'er  her  soul  has  sway. 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE.  65 


Its  faith,  like  gold,  more  pure  the  more  'tis  tried. 
Though  storms  without  on  eVery  side  increase, 
They  cannot  wreck  the  home  of  love  and  peace 
Which  on  the  rock  of  duty  firmly  stands, 
While  strife  and  folly  perish  on  the  sands. 


MOTHERHOOD. 

But  now  a  period  still  more  blest  shall  come, 

And  crown  with  joy  the  calm  delights  of  home; 

The  sweetest  era  of  the  female  life, 

Which  makes  a  mother  of  the  happy  wife, 

And  adds  new  strength  unto  that  holy  tie 

For  human  happiness  ordained  on  high. 

As  round  their  board  the  olive  branches  spring, 

And  love's  dear  claimants  on  their  parents  cling, 

The  mother  sees  beneath  her  anxious  eyes 

Her  lovely  hopes  in  fair  succession  rise. 

The  youngest,  cradled  on  her  fostering  breast, 

Smiles  its  delights,  and  softly  sinks  to  rest; 

Another  darling  with  bewitching  grace, 

Hides  in  the  slumber's  robe  his  cherub-face, 

As  archly  wantom,   full  of  infant  glee, 

He  laughs  aloud,  and  peeps  mamma  to  see. 

A  third,  more  active,  boldly  climbs  her  chair 

And  pleads  his  right  each  fond  caress  to  share; 

While  a  fair  girl,   who  hangs  upon  her  arm, 

Rich  in  each  playful  wile  and  early  charm, 

In  lisping  tones  her  earnest  wish  has  told: 

That  on  her  lap  the  baby  she  might  hold. 

The  happy  mother  on  her  infant  train 

Gazes  with  transport  which  amounts  to  pain; 

A  smile  of  rapture  on  her  lip  appears, 

But  her  soft  eyes  o'erflow  with  tender  tears  — 

Tears  which  e'en  watching  angels  might  approve, 

The  holy  weepings  of  maternal  love. 


66  BALLADS   OFj  LIFE. 


WIDOWHOOD. 

Blest  in  her  duties,   calmly  glide  away 
The  busy  hours  of  life's  meridian  day, 
Till  time,  advancing  o'er^the  dial,   flings 
A  darker  shade,   andJthatTsad  epoch  brings 
That  mournful  stage  of  comfortless  distress 
Which  sees  her  now  in|widowed  loneliness. 
Consumed  with  sorrowjand  oppressed  with  £are, 
Only  by  faith  she^sees^a  lot  more  fair; 
Only,  as  her  glance  on  her  children  falls, 
Living  for  them*  she  earthly  hopes  recalls 
From  mingled  feelings,  tears  her  eyes  o'erflow, 
Blending  the  mother's  love,  the  widow's  woe. 
Her  toils  and  cares  for  them,   that  interest  dear, 
E'en  robs  of  bitterness  the  falling  tear; 
'Mid  trials  she  is  strengthened,  and  her  mind 
Bows  to  the  will  of  heaven,   calmly  resigned. 


OLD   AGE. 

Slowly  but  sure  life's  sands  declining  flow 

In  ceaseless  course  what  now  remains  to  show 

Of  woman's  days,  when  all  has  passed  away 

That  charmed  the  young,  the  thoughtless  and  the  gay, 

And  the  fair  fabric  totters  in  decay; 

When  youth,   and  health,  and  strength,  and  beauty's  beam 

Appear  like  traces  of  some  distant  dream, 

Of  which  remembrance  almost  seems  to  fade. 

E'en  from  herself,  who  fondly  once  surveyed 

The  bright  possessions,  and,  in  raptured  tone, 

Exclaimed  exulting,    "These  are  all  my  own." 

Now  reft  of  all  —  faint,  feeble,  pressed  with  age, 

We  mark  the  feelings  in  the  last  great  stage; 

The  feverish  hopes,  the  fears,  the  cares  of  life 

No  more  oppress  her  with  their  torturing  strife; 


The  youngest,  cradled  on  her  fostering  breast, 
Smiles  its  delights',  and  softly  sinks  to  rest; 
Another  darling  with  bewitching  grace, 
Hides  in  the  slumber's  robe  his  cherub-face. 


BALLADS   OF    LIFE.  69 


.The  restless  tumults  of  her  heart,  to-day 
Have  passed  with  beauty  and  with  youth  away; 
She,  like  some  traveler  who  beholds  the  sun 
Sinking  before  him  e'er  his  journey's  done, 
Regrets  not  now  to  lose  its  noontide  power, 
But  hails  the  coolness  of  the  coming  hour, 
And  feels  a  holy  and  divine  repose 
Rest  on  her  spirit  in  life's  evening's  close. 
She  in  her  children's  children  tastes  again 
Maternal  pleasure  and  maternal  pain; 
To  them  imparts  the  knowledge  years  have  given. 
And  points  their  hopes  to  soar  with  hers  to  heaven. 
Although  her  eyes  are  dim  in  age's  night, 
Yet  still  more  brightly  burns  the  inward  light, 
Guiding  her  spirit  by  its  sacred  ray, 
To  cast  its  mortal  thralls  and  cares  away, 
And  wait  its  summons  to  eternal  day. 


THE   PILGRIM   AND   HIS   STAFF. 

MY  grandfather  sits  in  his  old  arm  chair, 
The  locks  on  his  brow  are  bleached  and  spare; 
He  has  done  with  care  and  with  labor  done, 
He  calmly  waits  for  life's  setting  sun. 

His  heart  goes  back  to  the  days  agone, 

When  the  lights  of  his  household  around  him  shone; 

But  they  have  departed — alas!  for  him  — 

When  the  ear  is  heavy,  the  eye  gro\vs  dim. 

The  wife  of  his  youth  in  the  grave  lies  low; 

The  turf  by  her  side  is  unbroken  now  — 

And  he  thinks  of  the  season  hastening  on, 

When  his  name  shall  be  traced  in  the  cold  white   stone. 


7o  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


But  he  trembles  not,   and  his  brow  is  calm  — 
For  beneath  the  grave  is  a  mighty  arm, 
Whose  strength  he  proved  when  his  years  were  few, 
And  the  "guide  of  youth"  to  his  age  proves  true. 

The  Bible  speaks  to  his  failing  ear, 

And  its  precious  words  are  a  joy  to  hear; 

Its  pages  glow  with  a  living  light, 

Like  the  shining  "ladder"   let  down  at  night. 

The  blessed  Word,  like  a  tree  whose  leaves 
In  its  freshness  and  beauty  the  spirit  weaves, 
To  bind  in  life's  spring-time,   around  the  brow; 
That  Word  is  his  crown  of  rejoicing  now. 

And  thus  as  he  waits  at  the  Jordan's  brim, 
Where  ninety  summers  have  bloomed  for  him, 
The  "closer  than  brother"   is  by  his  side, 
And  his  eye  is  fastened  beyond  the  tide. 

It  is  good  thus  meekly  to  watch  and  wait, 
Till  the  Master  calls  from  the  pearly  gate, 
And,  with  lamp  well  trimmed  at  set  of  sun, 
Go  in  with  the  wedding  garment  on. 

The  peace  of  his  spirit,   Q!  who  can  tell, 
Whose  life's  great  harvest  is  garnered  well? 
Who  has  done  with  care  and  with  labor  done, 
And  calmly  waits  for  life's  setting   sun. 


She  in  her  children's  children  tastes  again 
Maternal  pleasure  and  maternal  pain; 
To  them  imparts  the  knowledge  years*  have  given, 
And  points  their  hopes  to  soar  with  hers  to  heaven. 


SONGS' OF  HOPE  AND  MEMORY. 


PASSING  AWAY. 

• 

PASSING  away,  so  whispers  the  wind, 

As  it  treads  its  trackless  course; 
Passing  away,   doth  the  bright  rill  say, 

As  it  leaps  from  its  crystal  source. 
All  passing  away  on  the  stream  of  time 
To  oblivion's  vale  in  a  far  off  clime. 

Matter  and  man,   we  make  no  delay  — 

To  eternity's  gulf  w<e  are  passing  away. 

Passing  away!  e'en  the  forest  leaves 
Are  now  growing  yellow  and  sere; 

And  the  sylvan  bower  and  the  wild  wood  flower 
Fade  along  with  the  fading  year. 

Oh!  passing  away,   'tis  a  desolate  scene 

When  nature  is  robed  in  sombre  sheen, 

And  the  winds  through  the  leafless  forests  bay 
With  their  dismal  dirge:  we  are  passing  away 

Passing  away!  mark  the  furrowed  brow 
And  the  head  with  the  silvery  hair, 

And  the  furrowed  cheek,  how  they  plainly  speak, 
They're  leaving  a  world  of  care, 

Yes,   passing  away,   even  beauty's  flower 

Is  fading  fast  'neath  the  spoiler's  power; 
And  fair  and  frail,   to  their  bed  of  clay 
Adown  in  the  tomb  are  passing  away. 


74  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


Passing  away!  sounds  the  ocean  wave, 

As  it  breaks  on  the  beaten  shore, 
And  the  tortured  tide  is  left  to  chide 

The  cliffs  with  their  hollow  roar. 
Aye,  passing  away!  both  from  castle  and  cot, 
The  places  which  know  us,  will  soon  know  us  not; 

Whether  peasant  or  prince,  nature's  last  debt  to    pay 

At  the  fiat  of  God,  we  are  passing  away. 

Passing  away;  for  their  hour  is  past, 

Earth's  things,  they're  a  motley  pyre; 
The  monarch's  throne  and  his  sword  and  crown, 

Wealth,  fame  and  the  poet's  lyre. 
All  passing  away,  e'en  the  pomp  of  art 
And  the  pride  of  the  despot  must  all  depart, 

And  the  relics  of  realms  must  each  decay, 

And  the  names  of  their  great  ones  shall  pass  away. 

Passing  away!  even  Time  himsell 

Bends  under  his  load  of  years; 
His  limbs  are  frail,  and  his  cheek  grows  pale 

With  the  furrows  of  sorrowing  tears; 
With  his  broken  scythe,  with  a  silent  tread, 
He  is  passing  on  to  the  home  of  the  dead; 

With  a  bending  form  and  locks  grown  gray. 

Old  Time  himself  is  passing  away. 

Passing  away!  how  swiftly  they  go! 

Those  scenes  of  our  youth  once  dear, 
Those  friends  we  loved  are  by  death  removed, 

And  the  world  grows  strange  and  drear; 
And  the  hopes  of  our  youth  so  oft  depart, 
And  the  chords  of  love  round  the  human  heart; 

E'en  the  spirit  grows  tired  of  its  cot  of  clay, 

And  the  essence  immortal  would  fain  pass  away. 


SONGS  OF   HOPE  AND   MEMORY.  76 


Passing  away!  all  but  God's  bright  throne 
And  His  children's  home  of  love; 

And  His  grace  divine  and  the  boundless  mine 
Of  God's  eternal  love. 

But  change  shall  yet  come  on  rainbow  wings, 

And  shall  brighten  the  earth  with  happier  things; 
Though  suns  and  stars  should  all  decay, 
Yet  God  in  His  love  shall  ne'er  pass  away. 


RETROSPECTION. 

I  NOTE  this  morning  how  the  sunshine  falleth, 
Just  as  it  fell  one  morning  long  ago. 

A  white  dove  walks  the  window-ledge,  soft  cooing'; 
The  waters  murmur  in  their  ebb  and  flow. 

The  aspen  whispers  to  the  autumn   breezes; 

I  see  the  golden  rod  on  sloping  hills; 
I  catch  the  odors  of  the  brown  leaves  dying, 

And  hear  the  babble  of  the  shrunken  rills. 

I  listen  to  some  notes  ot  children's  laughter, 
Smiling  to  think  how  late  I  was  a  child — 

A  happy  elf,  with  cheeks  of  sun-kissed  crimson, 
And  curls  of  tawny  gold,  wind-tossed  and  wild, 

I  see  and  hear;  I  know  I  am  not  dreaming; 

And  still,  somehow,   I  can  not  make  it  seem 
But  that  I  sleep,  and  see  and  hear  things  dimly, 

As  one  does  often  in  a  troubled  dream. 

Ah,  well!  what  matter,  since  so  soon  for  all 

Our  toiling  and  our  tears  will  have  an  ending, 

And  our  tired  hearts  and  hands  shall  rest  for  aye 
In  that  blest  land  to  which  our  feet  are  tending. 


76  BALLADS   OF    LIFE. 


AT    REST. 


FROM  purple  skies,  my  darling,  the  silver  stars  look  down 

O'er  lonely  field  and  meadow,  and  the  cfuiet  sleeping-  town; 

And  the  winter's  suns  have  drifted  o'er  the  autumn's  gold  and  red, 

Till  the  heavy  vines  .were  droopmg  and  the  amber  leaves  were  dead. 

And  many  winds  of  winter  have  beaten  wood  and  wave, 

Till  the  river  ceased  to  murmur  and  the  year  was  in  its  grave — 

With  years  so  full  of  sunshine,   so  full  of  love  and  light, 

Above  whose  withered  roses  my  heart  keeps  watch  to-night. 

» 

Across  the  heath,   my  darling,   the  starry  lights  are  low, 
And  shadows  rising,  falling,  like  phantoms  come  and  go, 
As  o'er  the  mossy  woodland  the  fresh,  sweet  breezes  play 
Above  the  sleeping  blossoms  of  many  a  sunny  May; 
And  out  across  the  meadow-land  our  feet  so  oft  have  pressed, 
The  ivy  creeps  above  your  head,  no  storm  disturbs  your  rest; 
While  distant  bowers  grow  still  and  lone,  for  swallows  on  the  wing, 
And  o'er  the  dreary 'hills  appear  the  gentle  dawning  spring. 

The  tide  of  years,   my  darling,   ebbs  silently  and  fast; 

It  floweth  on  to  meet  the  sea,  so  dark,  so  deep  and  vast; 

Its  song  falls  gently  on  my  ear  across  the  winter's  snow, 

And  wakes  the  days  that  sleep  for  aye,   the  sunny  long  ago. 

My  heart  forgets  the  monody  by  saddened  memory  sung 

O'er  buried  fancies  of  a  life  no  longer  fair  and  young. 

The  breeze  that  wakes  the  snow  drop  from  sleep  within  the  wold, 

Brings  sweet  perfume  from  flowers  that  grew  in  sunny  fields  of  old. 

The  flowers  that  died,   my  darling,  will  raise  their  heads  again, 
Where  drifts  the  golden  sunshine  across  the  weary  plain. 
The  pleasant,   dreamy  days  will  come  with  roses  newly  blown, 
As  sweet  and  fair  as  those  we  knew  in  happy  summers  flown. 


But  dearer  far,  my  darling:,  than  all  things  else  can  be, 
The  hope  that  w<*shall  meet  again  when  I  have  crossed  life's  sea; 
No  wish  of  mine  would  wake  you  from,  rest  so  calm  and  deep, 
No  yearning  break  your  sweet  repose  in  peaceful,  dreamless  sleep. 


5DNG9  OF  HOPE  AND  MEMORY.     .  79 

But  dearer  far,  my  darling,  than  all  things  else  can  be, 
The  hope  that  we  shall  meet  again  when  I  have  crossed  life's  sea; 
No  wish  of  mine  would  wake  you  from  rest  so  calm  and  deep, 
No  yearning  break  your  sweet  repose  in   peaceful,  dreamless  sleep. 


THE  INCARNATION. 

HAIL  to  the  night  when  erst  on  Judah's  plain, 
A  glittering  host  proclaimed  a  Savior  come; 

Not  in  the  gorgeous  pomp  of  kingly  train, 

But  meekly  to  this  world  of  sin  and  gloom; 

Not  in  Thy  dread  omnipotent  array, 

No  indignation  burned  before  Thee  on  Thy  way. 

For  Thou  wast  born  of  woman  meek  and  mild, 
And  in  the  manger  rude  was  laid  to  rest; 

Earth  had  no  place  for  Thee,   O  Heavenly  Child, 
Though  earth  by  Thee  alone  was  truly  blest. 

Angels,  not  men  proclaimed  Thy  mission  here 

And  yet  for  man  alone  Thou  shedst  Thine  every  tear. 

For  man  alone  was  every  sorrow  borne: 

Hunger,  and  thirst,  and  weariness,  and  pain; 

For  man  alone  Thy  sacred  flesh  was  torn, 
That  sinful  man  might  bless  eternal   gain, 

Awhile  the  world  grew  dark  for  what  was  done, 

Then  basked  in  sweet  repose  beneath  a  cloudless  sun. 

No  clouds  of  vengeance  lowered  when  in  Thy  tomb 
Thy  weeping  followers  laid  Thee,   Holy  One, 

Soon  earnest  Thou  forth  fresh  in  immortal  bloom! 
Angelic  servants  rolled  away  the  stone. 

Thy  work  accomplished,  slowly  didst  Thou  rise, 

Calmly  majestic,   Godlike. to  Thy  native  skies. 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


AN   OLD   MAID'S   RETROSPECTION. 

R'EADIXG,  PA.,  Feb.  3,  1885. —  Undoubtedly  the  strangest  character  in  Eastern 
Pennsylvania  died  to-day  in  the  mountains  back  of  Bernville.  This  was  Sallie 
Kettner,  known  as  the  woman  hermit  of  the  mountains.  When  she  took  up  her 
solitary  abode  she  was  thirty-six  years  of  age.  The  story  goes  that  in  her  youth- 
fil  days  she  was  the  promised  bride  of  a  sailor,  who  was  impressed  into  the 
French  service  and  died  in  prison.  On  her  bosom,  when  the  dead  woman  was 
found,  was  the  last  letter  from  her  lover,  faded  with  age,  written  just  before  he  died. 

I  LOOK  into  the  dreamy  past  and  see — what  do  I  see? 

They  look  like  visions  now,  but  then, — how  real  they  were  to  me; 

I  see  my  girlhood  full  of  hope,  my  lover  true  and  brave; 

In  fancy  still  I  hear  his  vow,  as  pledge  of  love  he  gave — 

It  was  a  ring;  he  smiling  said,    "'Twill  serve  to  guard  the  space 

Upon  thy  finger,  till  I  put  another  in  its  place." 

That  first  love-gift,  see  here  it  is  —  Oh,  what  a  slender  band, 

Though  tethered  by  a  golden  chain  to  this  poor  withered  hand. 

r 

And  it  was  in  that  girlish  time,  when  I  perchance  might  see 

A  youthful  mother's  glance  of  pride  at  babe  upon  her  knee; 

I  envied  her  that  happiness,  and  Oh,  my  heart  beat  wild, 

That  I  might  one  day  be  his  wife,  and  mother  of  his  child. 

'  Twas  woman's  nature    in  me  spoke,  but  scarcely   had  the  thought 

Been  formed,  ere  maiden  pride  and  shame  a  mingled  color  brought; 

Vain  was  the  guiltless  blush,  for  though  these  hopes  of  mine  might  seem 

So  near  fulfilment  then,  alas,  they  proved  indeed  a  dream. 

To  win  a  home  my  lover  true  sailed  from  his  native  bay, 

By  tyrants  seized,  he  lingered  long  in  prisons  far  away; 

Years  passed  —  he  wrote  that  silver  threads  were  mingling  with  his  hair; 

They  were  in  mine  —  those  fruits,  sown  by  the  hand  of  Care; 

Now  whiter  than  the  snow-clad  hill  or  foam  that  crests  the  wave, 

Are  my  thin  locks;  his  weary  head  rests  in  a  foreign  grave. 

Ay  maidens,  you  may  sigh,   God  grant  that  happier  be  your  lot; 

For  me  no  power  could  make  me  wish  "this  true  love  dream  forgot. 


SONGS   OF   HOPE  AND   MEMORY.  81 


But  after  all  my  pains,  my  fears,  my  visions  of  the  past, 

One  ever-present  hope  of  mine  will  be  fulfilled  at  last; 

And  I  am  happy,  for  I  know  my  bridal  draweth  nigh  — 

A  union  purer,  holier  -far,  in  realms  beyond  the  sky. 

In  every  dream,  by  night  and  day,   I  hear  again  his  voice 

I  fmcy  that  he  beckons  me  and  calls  me  to  rejoice; 

That,   when  my  eyes  are  closed  in  death,  my  truly  loved  will  be 

The  first  by  the  Eternal  sent,  to  meet  and  welcome  me. 


COMPENSATION. 

THE  truest  words  we  ever  speak 

Are  words  of  cheer. 
Life  has  its  shade,  its  valleys  deep; 
But  round  our  feet  the  shadows  creep, 

To  prove  the  sunlight  near; 
Between  the  hills  those  valleys  sleep — 

The  sun-crowned  hills! 
And  down  their  sides  will  those  who  seek 
With  hopeful  spirit,  brave  th'ough  meek, 

Find  gently  flowing  rills. 

For  every  cloud,  a  silver  light; 

God  wills  it  so. 

For  every  vale,  a  shining  height; 
A  glorious  morn  for  every  night; 

And  birth  for  labor's  throe. 
For  snow's  white  wing,  a  verdant  field; 

A  gain  for  loss: 

For  buried  seed,  a  harvest  yield; 
For  pain,  a  strength,  the  joy  revealed. 

A  crown  for  every  cross. 


82  BALLADS  OF  LIFE. 


THE   GOOD   TIME   NOW. 

HUMANITY,  with  a  mighty  hope, 

Is  watching  with  anxious  eyes, 
To  see  the  light  of  a  golden  age 

On  a  waiting  world  arise. 
Though  weary  and  long  may  seem  that  time, 

Who  under  life's  burden  bow, 
Yet  progress  is  marching  with  steps  sublime  — 

'Tis  even  a  good  time  now. 


What  better  time  could  be  ever  sought 

For  victories  to  be  won 
'Than  this  earnest  age  with  its  noblest  thought, 

And  the  work  that  should  be  done? 
Earth's  heroes  all  toiled  thro'  long,  dark  years 

Ere  they  saw  life's  fruited  bough, 
And  the  seeds  of  the  harvest  of  future  years 

Must  be  sown  in  the  adlive  now. 


The  sun  is  as  bright  that  shines  to-day 

As  it  will  aye  from  hights  sublime; 
.And  God  has  as  weighty  words  to  say 

As  to  seers  in  ancient  time: 
Bright  visions  still  come  to  faith's  clear  eye, 

To  those  who  in  meekness  bow; 
The  pure  behold  the  triumph  nigh 

By  the  light  of  the  good  time  now. 


This  living  present,  this  longed-for  hour, 

Is  the  one  to  us  the  best, 
And  the  soul  that  uses  its  gift  of  power 

Shall  evermore  be  blest. 


SONGS  OF  HOPE  AND  MEMORY.  83 

Great  souls  by  eternal  truth  set  free, 

No  longer  in  shackles  bow: 
The  midnight  is  past,  the  jubilee 

Has  begun  with  the  good  time  now. 


THE  SPIRIT'S  CRY. 

O,  MY  Father  whom  angels  environ, 

One  gift  from  Thy  bounty  impart; 
Not  for  wings  nor  for  sinews  of  iron, 

I  ask  but  Thy  life  in  my  heart. 
I  walk  in  the  darkness  and  blindly, 

There's  no  one  to  teach  me  the  right, 
E'en  my  queries  none  answer  me  kindly — 

Thou  only  canst  lead  me  to  light. 

From  Thee  I  derived  my  existence; 

To  Thee  I  return  at  Thy  will  — 
I  but  ask  Thee  for  strength  and  assistance, 

Thy  law  and  my  t?sk  to  fulfill. 
Give  me  strength,   O  Strong  One  and  tender, 

The  wisdom  that  comes  from  above: 
Grief  has  taught  me  that  none  else  can  render 

What  we  need  for  life's  labor  of  love. 

In  life's  sorrows  no  more  I'll  be  lonely, 

In  conflicts  no  more  be  afraid; 
I  shall  triumph,  and  triumph,  aye  only, 

If  Thou  wilt  but  give  me  Thine  aid. 
Let  me  lean  on  Thy  bosom,  O  Strong  One, 

O,  Wise  One,   I  am  not  afraid: 
For  I  know  that  Thou  never  wilst  wrong  one 

Of  those  whom  Thy  goodness  hath  made. 


84  .    BALLADS  OF   LIFE. 


THE   COMING  DAY. 

LET  Saints  rejoice,  the  night  is  past,  • 
The  gospel  day  has  dawned  at  last; 
Soon  shall  the  sun  of  righteousness 
With  healing  wings  the  nations  bless. 

CHORUS:         Hail  to  the  coming  morning, 
And  a  future  calm  and  bright! 
Hail  to  the  rosy  dawning 
Of  the  gospel's  glorious  light! 

Let  all  obey  the  Lord's  command     . 
To  spread  the  truth  in -every  land, 
Till  all  who  dwell  in  error's  night 
Shall  learn  of  Him  and  dwell  in  light. 

Redeemed  to  God  each  land  shall  be, 
And  every  island  of  the  sea, 
All  nations  learn*  to  know  the  Lord 
And  -live  obedient  to  His  word. 

O  speed  the  years  and  bring  that  day 
When  sorrow  shall  be  done  away: 
When  in  the  Savior's  peaceful  reign 
Earth  shall  her  long  lost  Eden  gain. 


A  WAY   I    KNEW   NO*T. 

'Tis  not  the  way  that  lay  so  bright  before  me, 

When  youth  stood  flush' d  on  Hope's  enchanted  ground; 

No  cloud  in  skies  of  azure  bending  o'er  me, 
No  desert  spot  in  all  the  landscape  round. 


SONGS   OF   HOPE   AND   MEMORY.  85 

Fair  visions,  glimmering  through  the  distance,  beckon'd 

My  buoyant  steps  along  the  sunny  'way; 
Sweet  voices  thrill'd  me,  till  I  fondly  reckon'd 

That  life  would  be  one  long  blue  summer  day. 

This  was  the  path  my  feet  had  gladly  taken; 

And,  blindly  lured  by  that  deceitful  gleam, 
I  would  have  wander' d  on,  by  God  forsaken, 

Till  death  awoke  me  from  a  fatal  dream. 


Alas!  in  youth  by  Eden's  gate  we  linger; 

In  its  green  bowers  we  fain  would  make  abode, 
Till  the  stern  Angel-Warder,   with  calm  finger, 

Points  the  feet  outward  to  the  desert  road. 


My  pleasant  path  in  sudden  darkness  ended, 

My  footsteps  slipped,  my  hopes  were  well-nigh  gone; 

I  could  but  pray, —  and  as  my  prayer  ascended, 

Thy  face,   O  Father!  through  the  darkness  shone. 

And  by  that  light  I  saw  the  Cross  of  trial, 

The  landmark  of  the  way  my  Savior  went, — 

The  upward  path  of  pain  and  self-denial; 

And  thou  didst  point  me  to  the  steep  ascent. 

A  way  I  knew  not  —  winding,   rough,  and  thorny; 
So  dark  at  times  I  scarce  the  path  could  see; 
But  thou  hast  been  my  guide  thro'  all  the  journey,— 

Its  steepness  has  but  made  me  lean  on  Thee.    . 

. 

And  onward  still  I  go,  in  calm  assurance 

That  thou  wilt  needful  help  and  guidance  lend; 

That  strength  will  come  for  every  day's  endurance,— 
Grace  all  the  way,  and  glory  at  the  end. 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


WRECKS. 

SUNSET'S  soft  flush  has  faded 
i        Out  of  the  western  sky, 
And  over  the  busy  city 

The  twilight  shadows  lie. 


A  soft  gray  mist  is  spreading 

O'er  the  lake  and  the  distant  land, 

And  white- capped  waves  come  rolling", 
To  break  on  the  pebbly  strand. 


The  lamps  in  the  street  are  lighted, 

And  the  lamps  in  the  vaulted  blue, 

While  the  rose-bud  holds  up  her  fragrant  lips 
To  be  kissed  by  the  falling  dew. 

I  stand  in  the  twilight  gleaming, 

In  the  midst  of  the  water's,  roar, 
And  think  of  my  boyhood  dreaming 


There  are  wrecks  on  the  beach  by  the  headland, 
And  the  sailors  sleep  under  the  waves; 

No  bell  ever  tolled  for  their  funeral  rites, 

No  prayers  have  been  said!  by  their  graves. 


Sad?     I  know  of  a  thing  that  is  sadder  still  — 
Of  a  life  that  is  wrecked  and  lost; 

Of  a  brave  proud  heart  that  is  struggling;  on, 
Driven  and  tempest-tossed. 


£  n 


3     O 


SONGS  OF  HOPE  AND   MEMORY.  89 


I  know  of  a  heart  that  strove  and  broke, 
Of  a  conquered  and  humbled  pride  ; 

Of  a  spirit  that,  tortured,  crushed  and  wronged, 
Wrestled  and  moaned  and  died. 

I  know  —  pshaw!  what  do  you  care? 

Be  still!  I  will  tell  no  more, 
But  this:  there  are  sadder  wrecks  by  far, 

Than  the  wrecks  by  the  blue  lake's  shore. 

CHICAGO,   1870.  » 


HEAVEN. 

BEYOND  the  chilling  winds  and  gloomy  skies, 

Beyond  death's  cloudy  portal, 
There  is  a  land  where  beauty  never  dies, 

And  love  becomes  immortal. 

A  land  whose  light  is  never  dimmed  by  shade, 

Whose  fields  are  ever  vernal; 
Where  nothing  beautiful  can  ever  fade, 

But  blooms  for  aye,  eternal. 

We  may  not  know  how  sweet  the  balmy  air, 
How  bright  and  fair  its  flowers; 

We  may  not  hear  the  songs  that  echo  there, 
Through  those  enchanted  bowers. 

The  city's  shining  towers  we  may  not  see,  . 

With  our  dim  earthly  vision; 
For  death,  the  silent  warder,  keeps  the  key 

That  opes  those  gates  elysian. 


90    '  BALLADS   OF  LIFE. 


But  sometimes  when  adown  the  western  sky 

The  fiery  sunset  lingers, 
Its  golden  gates  swing  inward  noiselessly, 

Unlocked  by  unseen  fingers.          , 

And  while  they  stand  a  moment  half  ajar, 

Gleams  from  the  inner  glory 
Stream  brightly  through  the  azure  vault  afar, 

And  half  reveal  the  story. 

O  land  unknown!  O  land  of  love  divine! 

Father  all- wise,   Eternal, 
Guide,  guide  these  wandering,  way-worn  feet  of  mine 

Into  those  pastures  vernal. 
1860. 


"A   LITTLE  WHILE." 

OH!  for  the  peace  which  floweth  as  a  river, 

Making  life's  desert  places  bloom  and  smile! 

Oh!  for  the  faith  to  grasp  heaven's  bright  "forever," 
Amid  the  shadows  of  that  "little  while!" 

"A  little  while"  for  patient  vigil-keeping, 

To  face  the  storm,  to  wrestle  with  the  strong; 
^'  A  little  while"   to  sow  the  seed  with  weeping, 

Then  bind  the  sheaves  and  sing  the  harvest  song. 

""A  little  while"  to  wear  the  robe  of  sadness, 

And  toil  with  weary  step  through  miry  ways; 

Then  to.  pour  forth  the  fragrant  oil  of  gladness, 
And  clasp  the  girdle  round  the  robe  of  praise. 


SONGS  OF   HOPE  AND  MEMORY.  91 


"A  little  while,"   midst  shadow  and  illusion, 
To  strive,  by  faith,  life's  mysteries  to  spell; 

Then  read  each. dark  enigma's  bright  solution, 

And  hail  sight's  verdict,    "He  doth  all  things  well." 

"A  little  while"  the  earthen  pitcher  taking 

To  wayside  brooks,  from  far-off  fountains  fed; 

Then  the  cool  lip  its  thirst  forever  slaking, 
Besides  the  fullness  of  the  fountain-head. 


"A  little  while"  to  keep  the  oil  from  failing, 

"A  little  while"  faith's  flickering  lamp  to  trim; 

And  then  the  Bridegroom's  coming  footsteps  hailing, 
To  haste  to  meet  Him  with  the  bridal  hymn. 

Thus  He  who  is  Himself  the  gift  and  giver, 
The  future  glory,  and  the  present  smile, 

With  the  bright  promise  of  the  glad  "forever," 
Can  light  the  shadows  of  the  "little  while." 


TIRED   OF  PLAY. 

TIRED  of  play!  Tired  of  play! 

What  hast  thou  done  this  livelong  day? 

The  birds  are  silent  and  so  is  the  bee, 

The  sun  is  creeping  up  steeple  and  tree; 

The  doves  have  flown  to  the  sheltering  eaves, 

And  the  nests  are  dark  with  the  drooping  leaves; 

Twilight  gathers  and  day  is  done — 

How  hast  thou  spent  it,  restless  one? 


92  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


Playing  ?  But  what  hast  thou  done  beside, 
To  tell  thy  mother  at  eventide? 
What  promise  of  morn  is  left  unbroken  ? 
What  kind  word  to  thy  playmate  spoken? 
How  with  thy  faults  has  duty  striven  ? 
Whom  hast  thou  pitied,  and  whom  forgiven? 
What  hast  thou  learned  by  field  and  hill, 
By  greenwood  path  an,d  by  singing  rill? 


There  will  come  an  eve  to  a  longer  day, 
That  will  find  thee  tired, — but  not  of  play; 
And  thou  will  lean,   as  thou  leanest  now, 
With  drooping  limbs  and  aching  brow, 
And  wish  the  shadows  would  faster  creep, 
And  long  to  go  to  thy  quiet  sleep; 
Well  were  it  then,  if  thine  aching  brow 
Were  as  free  from  sin  and  shame  as  now. 


Well  for  thee  if  thy  lips  could  tell 
A  tale  like  this,  of  a  day  spent  well; 
If  thine  open  hand  hath  relieved  distress, 
If  thy  pity  hath  sprung  to  wretchedness; 
If  thou  hast  forgiven  the  sore  offence, 
And  humbled  thy  heart  with  penitence; 
If  nature's  voices  have  spoken  with  thee, 
With  her  holy  meanings  eloquently. 

If  every  creature  hath  won  thy  love, 
From  the  creeping  worm  to  the  brooding  dove; 
If  never  a  sad,  low-spoken  word, 
Hath  plead  with  thy  human  heart  unheard; 
.Then,  when  the  night  steals  on,   as  now, 
It  will  bring  relief  to  thine  aching  brow; 
And,  with  joy  and  peace  at  the  thought  of  rest, 
Thou  wilt  sink  to  sleep  on  thy  mother's  breast. 


SONGS  OF  HOPE  AND  MEMORY. 


These  know  their  doom,  and  walk  their  way, 

With  level  steps  and  steadfast  eyes, 
Nor  strive  with  fate,  nor  weep  nor  pray; 

While  others,  not  so  sadly  wise, 
Are  mocked  by  phantoms  evermore, 

And  lured  by  seemings  of  delight, 
Fair  to  the  eye,  but  at  the  core 

Holding  but  bitter  dust  and  blight. 

, 
I  see  them  gaze  from  wistful  eyes, 

I  mark  their  sign  on  fading  cheeks, 
I  hear  them  breathe  in  smothered  sighs, 

And  note  the  grief  that  never  speaks; 
For  them  no  might  represses  wrong, 

No  eye  with  pity  is  impearled; 
Oh,   misconstrued  and  suffering  long, 

Oh,  hearts  that  hunger  through  the  world. 

For  you  does  life's  dull  desert  hold 

No  fountain's  shade,  no  date  grove  fair, 
No  gush  of  waters  clear  and  cold. 

But  sandy  reaches  wide  and  bare. 
The  foot  may  fail,  the  soul  may  faint, 

And  weigh  to -earth  the  weary  frame; 
Yet  still,  ye  make  no  weak  complaint, 

Nor  speak  a  word  of  grief  or  blame. 

Oh,  eager  .eyes  which  gaze  afar, 

Oh,  arms  which  clasp  the  empty  air; 

Not  all  unmarked  your  sorrows  are, 
Not  all  unpitied  your  despair. 

Smile  patient  lips,  so  proudly  dumb- 
When  life's  frail  tent  at  last  is  furled 

Your  glorious  recompence  shall  come, 

Oh,   hearts  that  hunger  through  the  world. 


BALLADS  OF  LIFE. 


UTAH,  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  WEST. 

THE  youth  of  each  land  for  their  fatherland  stand, 

And  boast  of  its  grandeur  with  pride; 
Whate'er  their  estate,  their  fortunes  or  fate, 

To  none  is  this  freedom  denied; 
Then  why  should  not  we,   young,   happy  and  free, 

Rejoice  in  the  land  we  love  bestn- 
For  our  Father,  so  kind,  our  lot  has  assigned 

In  Utah,  the  queen  of  the  west. 


The  bold  mountains  rise,  and  point  to  the  skies, 

Like  sentinels  round  our  abode, 
And  vales  calm  and  sweet  repose  at  their  feet  — 

Fit  home  of  the  people  of  God. 
From  those  cold,  bleak  forms,   fit  dwellings  for  storm? 

Flow  the  crystalline  streams  God  has  blest; 
Rich  harvests  have  smiled  in  the  desert  once  wild, 

In  Utah,  the  queen  of  the  west. 

The  poor  and  oppressed,   in  this  land  of  the  west. 

Find  plenty,  and  freedom,  and  joy- 
Though  the  wicked  may  sneer,  to  us  thou  art  dear, 

And  fair  as  thine  own  sunny  sky; 
The  Gospel's  proclaimed  to  all  here  on  earth, 

And  the  meek  and  the  lowly  rejoice; 
From  Babylon  they  flee  to  this  land  of  the  free  — 

To  Utah,  the  land  of  their  choice. 


Thy  sisters  first  born,  who  tauntingly  scorn, 

Shall  joy  to  do  honor  to  thee; 
With  each  coming  hour  thy  glory  shall  tower, 

Till  the  nations  thy  beauty  shall  see. 


SONGS   OF   HOPE  AND   MEMORY.  .  103 

Thy  triumph  is  nigh,  oppression  shall  die, 

There  is  freedom  within  thee,  and  rest; 
The  years  as  they  fleet  shall  bless  our  retreat, 

With  peace  in  this  land  of  the  west. 


YOUNG   LOVE'S   FIRST   DREAM. 

LAST  night,  mother,  he  told  me  so, 

As  we  walked  by  the  pebbly  stream, 
And  I  woke  so  happy,  so  wild  with  joy, 

It  seems  like  a  fairy  dream; 
But  his  charming  voice  is  ringing  in  my  ear, 

As  a  dream  voice  could  not  be; 
He's  the  best  man  you  know  in  the  wide,  wide  world, 

And  he  loves  just  only  me. 

Kiss  me,   mother,  and  share  my  joy, 

That  has  on  my  fortune  smiled; 
You  have  shared  my  sorrows,  when'er  I  wept, 

Since  I  was  a  little  child; 
Do  you  chide  me  now?     What  could  your  darling  do, 

When  he  plead  with  bended  knee? 
He's  the  best  man  you  know  in  the  wide,  wide  world, 

And  he  loves  just  only  me. 

Leave  you,  mother?     It  brings  a  pang 

To  this  light  and  bounding  heart, 
But  if  he  were  calling,  the  bride  would  go, 

Though  you  and  the  daughter  part; 
At  a  word  from  him,  a  beckon  of  his  hand, 

I  would  cross  the  rolling  sea; 
He's  the  best  man  you  know  in  the  wide,  wide  world, 

And  he  loves  just  only  me. 


104  •  BALLADS  OF   LIFE. 


DIVORCED. 

MONTHS  of  sunny  life  and  fair, 
Days  that  flitted — none  knew  where; 
Hours  of  pleasure,   hours  of  pain, 
Hours  that  ne'er  can  come  again; 
They  are  gone,  but  do  you  find 
You  can  leave  them  all  behind? 

Come  not  memories  evermore 
Drifting  round  you  from  that  shore? 
Words  that  lessened  every  care, 
Thoughts  no  Bother  e'er  could  share, 
Duties  that  we  ever  met 
With  one  thought,  can  you  forget? 

Can  you  calmly  thus  efface 

From  Life's  tablet  every  trace 

Of  the  hopes,  and  prayers,  and  tears, 

We  have  shared  in  other  years  — 

Can  we  all  these  memories  smother 

And  "be  nothing  to  each  other?" 

Can  you  break  the  golden  chain 

With  its  links  of  joy  and  pain  ? 

Do  you  think  it  will  decay 

As  the  long  years  pass  away? 

That  the  bright  strands  e'er  could  fade 

Tho'  long  hidden  in  the  shade? 

When  for  us  life's  task  is  o'er 
And  we  tread  its  paths  no  more  — 
When  'mid  shadows  dimly  falling, 
We  shall  hear  the  angels  calling, 
As  we  calmly  stand  and  wait, 
Just  outside  the  golden  gate  — 


SONGS  OF   HOPE  AND   MEMORY.  105 


Then  .will  these  dark  memories  seem 
But  a  phantom  or  a  dream; 
In  that  dawn  of  purer  light 
You  will  read  all  things  aright; 
False  words  will  not  seem  as  true 
Till  that  morn— adieu,  adieu! 


THREE  ANGELS. 

THEY  say  this  life  is  barren,  drear  and  cold  — 
Ever  the  same  sad  song  was  sung  of  old  — 
Ever  the  same  long  weary  tale  is  told ; 
And  to  our  lips  is  held  the  cup  of  strife, 
And  yet — a  little  love  can  sweeten  life. 

They  say  our  hands  can  grasp  but  joys  destroyed, 
Youth  has  but  dreams,  and  age  an  aching  void, 
Which  Dead  Sea  fruit  long,  long  ago  has  cloyed  ; 
Life  is  a  night,  with  wild,  cold  tempests  rife, 
And  yet — a  little  hope  can  brighten  life. 

They  say  we  fling  ourselves  in  wild  despair, 
Amidst  the  broken  treasures  scattered  there  — 
Where  all  is  wrecked,  where  all  once  promised  fair, 
And  stab  ourselves  with  sorrow's  two-edged  knife, 
And  yet — a  little  patience  strengthens  life. 

Is  it  then  true,  this  tale  of  woe  and  grief, 
Of  mortal  anguish  finding  no  relief? 
Lo,  midst  the  winter  shines  the  laurel  leaf- 
Three  angels  share  the. lot  of  human  strife  — 
Three  angels  glorify  the  path  of  life. 


ro6  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


Love,   Hope,   and  Patience  cheer  us  on  our  way  ; 
Love,    Hope,  and  Patience*  form  our  spirit's  stay  ; 
Love,   Hope,  and  Patience  watch  us  day  by  day, 
And  bid  the  desert  bloom  with  beauty  vernal, 
Until  the  earthly  fades  in  the  eternal. 
NOVEMBER,   1871. 


THE   PIONEERS. 

THEY  were  an  exile  band, 

Without  a  home  to  rest, 
But,  guided  by  a  Father's  hand, 

Their  wand' ring's  have  been  blest. 
Forsaken  by  their  friends, 

Despised  and  scorned  by  foes, 
They  sought  the  aid  the  Highest  sends, 

And  in  His  strength  arose. 

O'er  wide  and  lonely  plains, 

Past  dark  Missouri's  tide, 
Our  fathers  sought  a  home,  where  they 

Might  aye  in  peace  abide; 
Where  each  should  have  the  right, 

In  peace  to  worship  God, 
Uninfluenced  by  the  pomp  of  pride, 

Unawed  by  tyrants'  rod. 

Amidst  these  mountains  wild, 

O,  can  we  e'er  forget? 
They  made  this  desert  land  to  bloom  — 

The  vales  of  Deseret. 
Far  from  the  scenes  of  vice 

Beyond  their  foe's  domain, 
They  made  this  mountain  land  their  choice, 

Let  us  their  rights  maintain. 


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SONGS   OF   HOPE  AND   MEMORY.  109 

EARLY    MEMORIES. 

Read  at  a  Reunion  of  Early  Friends  in  1880. 

GOOD  evening,  friends,  let  us  a  moment  ponder, 

And  view  again  those  scenes  of  youth  most  dear; 

Let  us  again  in  childhood's  bright  days  wander, 
And  catch  a  memory  that  may  bid  us  cheer. 

Where  are  the  bright  scenes  'midst  which  once  we'd  linger, 
When  life's  harp  seemed  to  sound  but  dulcet  tones? 

Ere  age,  with  ruthless  hand,   had  traced  its  finger 
Upon  our  brows?     But,  ah!  those  days  are  gone. 

What  though  those  sunny  hours  are  not  remaining, 
Still  we  will  bless  them  for  what  they  once  were; 

Nor  can  I  say  that  life's  deep  joys  are  waning, 

Though  in  those  pleasures  I  no  more  have  share. 

Some  of  those  youths,  the  brave  and  noble-hearted, 
With  whom  we  shared  the  sports  of  long  ago, 

Have  anchor  weighed,  set  sail,  and  hence  departed 
•To  a  far  region,  which  we  little  know. 

Still  when  we  number  sports  of  bygone  moments, 
We'll  reck  their  number  as  if  they  were  here; 

For  still  their  memory  clings  around  each  romance 
Of  early  sorrow  or  of  early  cheer. 

May  we,  like  them,  life's  stormy  voyage  over, 
Rest  in  a  land  where  joys  perennial  smile, 

Trusting  the  promise  of  God's  bright  forever, 
To  cheer  the  shadows  of  this  little  while. 


BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


A   WIFE'S    REMINISCENCE. 

I  REMEMBER  my  first  valentine, 

The  cause  of  childish  joy; 
For  I  was  then  a  tiny  girl, 

The  sender  but  a  boy. 
It  was  indeed  a  gorgeous  thing, 

In  brilliant  colors  wrought — • 
Above  a  bleeding,   broken  heart 

Fat  cupids  fiercely  fought. 


The  next  /love  message  I  received 

When  I  was  sweet  sixteen  — 
A  pretty  trifle,  gilt  with  lace, 

With  tissue  blue  between; 
Two  pink  hearts  on  an  arrow  fixed, 

Surrounded  by  a  wreath, 
An  altar,   church,   white  doves  and  rings  - 

Hymeneal  lines  beneath. 

The  third  —  ah!  friends,   it  was  the  last, 

The  dearest  and  the  best; 
It  told  a  tale  of  honest  love, 

It  brought  me  joy  and  rest; 
A  cream  white  shield  of  satin  bore 

A  moss-rose  wet  with  dew; 
The  name  I  loved  was  written  on 

A  tiny  scroll  of  blue. 

The  send'er — well,   I  married  him 

One  bright  St.   Valentine, 
He  spoke  the  words  that  made  his  name, 

His  home,   his  fortune  mine. 


SONGS   OF   HOPE  AND   MEMORY. 


I  said  'twas  the  last  valentine, 
But  that  I  now  recall; 

For  I  have  still  another  one, 
The  sweetest  of  them  all. 


The  sweetest  and  the  prettiest, 

A  marvel  'tis  of  grace; 
Pink,  rounded  limbs,  pink,  chubb,y  feet, 

And  rosy,  dimpled  face, 
Fourteenth  of  Febru'ry  it  came, 

This  baby-boy  of  mine; 
What  shall  we  call  him,  husband  asks  — 

We'll  call  him  Valentine. 


THE  WHITE  STAIRWAY. 

THE  white  sheet,  woven  in  the  clouds, 
Enwraps  the  silent  hills  that  lie, 

Like  giants,  sleeping  in  their  shrouds, 

Clasped  in  the  blue  arms  of  the  skyf 

As  the  turf  veils  the  peaceful  dead, 

Beneath  this  great  white  sheet  of  snow, 

The  winds  tuck  round  their  dreamless  bed, 
With  brands  unseen  by  us  below! 

Upon  the  mountain's  furrowed  brow, 
By  summer's  awful  thunder  riven, 

The  winds  are  heaping  banks  of  snow  — 

Building  white  stairways  up  to  heaven! 


BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


THE  TWO   WORKERS. 

Two  workers  in  one  field 

Toiled  on  from  day  to  day; 
Both  had  the  same  hard  labor, 

Both  had  the  same  small  pay. 
With  the  same  blue  sky  above, 

The  same  green  grass  below; 
One  soul  was  full  of  love, 

The  other  full  of  woe. 


One  leaped  up  with  the  light 

With  the  soaring  of  the  lark; 
'One  felt  it  ever  night, 

For  his  soul  was  ever  dark. 
One  heart  was  hard  as  stone, 

One  heart  was  ever  gay; 
One  worked  with  many  a  groan, 

One  whistled  all  the  day. 


One  had  a  flower-clad  cot, 

Beside  a  merry  mill; 
Wife  and  children  near  the  spot 

Made  it  sweeter,   fairer  still. 
One  a  wretched  hovel  had, 

Full  of  discord,   dirt,  and  din; 
No  wonder  he  seemed  mad, 

Wrife  and  children  starved  within. 


Still  they  worked  in  the  same  field, 
Toiled  on  from  day  to  day; 

Both  had  the  same  hard  labor, 
Both  had  the  same  small  pay. 


SONGS   OF   HOPE   AND   MEMORY.  113 


But  they  worked  not  with  one  will; 

The  reason  let  me  tell: 
Lo!  the  one  drank  at  the  still,. 

And  the  other  at  the  well. 


WHY   WAS    I    LOOKING  OUT?' 

RIGHT  earnestly  he  sued  my  love, 

For  one  kind  look  or  smile; 
I  turned  my  face  away  from  him, 

And  answered  not  a  while; 
Yet,  as  he  crossed  the  little  porch, 

Perple?»ed  by  many  a  doubt, 
He  saw  me  through  the  jessamine  — 

Why  was  I  looking  out? 

He  pleaded  for  a  little  rose 

That  nestled  in  my  hair; 
I  turned  away  in  seeming  scorn, 

And  left  him  lonely  there; 
Yet,  as  beneath  my  window-sill 

He  passed  in  dull  despair, 
He  saw  the  rosebud  in  the  grass  — 

How  had  it  fallen  there  ? 


'Tis  years  ago;  his  sunny  hair 

Is  still  as  brown  and  bright, 
And  on  my  hand  a  little  ring 

Is  flashing  in  the  light; 
He  is  my  own  forevermore, 

And  he  was  mad  to  doubt, 
Since  first  behind  the  jessamine 

He  caught  me  looking  out. 


H4  BALLADS   OF    LIFE. 


TURNING  GRAY. 

LIFE'S  sands  are  running  fast  away, 

The  buoyant  step  of  youth  has  gone, 
The  falling  hair  is  turning  gray, 

And  time  seems  now  to  hurry  on    , 
More  fleetly  than  in  days  of  yore — 

Before  the  heart  became  its  prey; 
Before  'twas  saddened  to  the  core — 

Before  the  hair  was  turning  gray. 


Yes,  turning  gray!  age  conies  like  snow, 

As  still,   and  carves  each  careworn  line; 
Its  wrinkles  on  the  brow  will  grow; 

The  hair  with  silvery  streaks  will  shine; 
The  eyes  their  brightness  lose,  the  hand, 

Grow  dry  and  tremulous  and  thin; 
For  life,   alas!  is  quickly  spanned, 

And  death  its  gates  soon  closes  in! 


Ah,  turning  gray!  we  fain  would  hide, 

This  sign  how  long  with  time  we've  been; 
These  deep'ning  wrinkles  side  by  side, 

Cut  by  the  sorrows  we  have  seen; 
For  feebler  beats  the  heart  as  years 

More  thickly  cluster  on  our  head; 
As  autumn  raindrops  hang  like  tears, 

On  some  fair  flower  that's  nearly  dead! 


Like  perished  petals  from  the  flower, 

Our  hopes  and  wildest  joys  are  laid: 
Born  only  for  a  day  or  hour, 

Sweet  gambols  by  the  fancy  played; 


SONGS   OF   HOPE   AND  MEMORY.  115 


As  age  comes  on  we  long  for  rest, 

As  saints  near  shrines  will  long  to  pray; 

But,  ah!  we  loved  that  time  the  best, 
Before  the  hair  was  turning  gray. 


AN  OLD  ROAD. 

A  CURVE  of  green  tree  tops, 

And  a  common  wall  below, 
And  a  winding  road,  that  dips  and  drops, 

Ah  me!  where  does  it  go? 
Down  to  the  lovely  days 

Goes  that  familiar  track, 
And  Here  I  stand  and  wait  and  gaze, 

As  if  they  could  come  back. 

Somewhere  beneath  that  hill 

Are  children's  running  feet, 
And  a  little  garden  fair  and  still, 

Were  never  flowers  so  sweet? 
And  a  house  within  an  open  door, 

What  was  therein  I  know  — 
O!  let  me  enter  nevermore, 

But  still  believe  it  so. 

Up  this  oft-trodden  slope 

What  visions  rise  and  throng! 
What  keen  remembrances  of  hope 

Lie  shattered  all  along! 
These  flowers  that  never  grew, 

Bloom  they  in  any  clime? 
Can  any  spring  to  come  renew 

What  died  in  that  sweet  time? 


n6  BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


Here  I  believed  in  fame, 

And  found  no  room  for  fear ; 
Here  sprang  to  meet  what  never  came, 

Here  loved  —  what  is  not  here! 
Not  worth  a  moment's  pause 

Seemed  any  fallen  gem, 
Not  worth  a  sigh,   a  glance,,  because 

Life  would  be  full  of  them. 

The  child  in  the  fairy  tale 

Dropped  tokens  as  he  passed, 
So  pierced  the  darksome  forest  veil 

And  found  his  home  at  last ; 
I,   in  the  falling  day, 

Turn  back  through,  deeper  gloomr 
By  gathered  memories  feel  my  way 

Only  to  find  —  a  tomb. 

For  there  they  lie  asleep, 

Eyes  that  made  all  things  sweet, 
Hands  of  true  pressure,  hearts  more  deep 

Than  any  left  to  beat ; 
A  world  where  all  was  great, 

Paths  trodden  not,   but  seen: 
Light  streaming  through  an  open  gate  — 

The  world  that  might  have  been! 

Pictures,   and  dreams,   and  tears  — 

O  Love,   is  this  the  whole? 
Nay,  wrap  your  everlasting  years 

About  my  failing  soul! 
The  lightest  word  you  spake 

Beyond  all  time  shall  last  — 
These  only  sleep  before  they  wake  — 

In  Love  there  is  no  Past! 


v 


SONGS   OF   HOPE   AND  MEMORY.  117 


\  THE   MERCHANT. 

Tare  and  tret,  gross  and  net, 
Box  and  hogshead,  dry  and  wet: 
Ready  made,   of-  every  grade, 
Wholesale,  retail,  will  you  trade? 

Goods  for  sale,  roll  or  bale, 
Ell  or  quarter,   yard  or  nail; 
Every  dye,  will  you  buy? 
None  can  sell  as  cheap  as  I! 

Thus  each  day  wears  away, 
And  his  hair  is  turning  gray! 
O'er  his  books  he  nightly  looks, 
Counts  his  gains  and  bolts  his  locks. 

By  and  by  he  will  die  — 
But  the  ledger  book  on  high 
Shall  unfold  how  he  sold, 
How  he  got  and  used  his  gold! 
ANTHONY,  MINN.,   1861. 


LAZING. 

Composed  while  shingling  a  roof  on  a  hot  day. 

GIVE  me  a  day,  let  business  right  itself, 

Give  me  one  day  to  drift  in  idleness 

Along  the  shores  of  dreamland.     Let  me  build 

My  castles  in  the  air  and  dwell  in  them 

A  space,  while  yet  the  happy  May-winds  blow. 


BALLADS   OF    LIFE. 


The  oriole  is  come  and  in  the  thorn, 

Among  the  greening  buds,   the  cat-bird  sings  ; 

The  fields  are  sweet,  and  in  the  sky  is  set 

A  tranquil  glory.     Let  me  go  and  lie 

Upon  the  grass  while  happy  May-winds  blow. 

I'd  rather  rest  to-day  than  be  a  king, 
For  what  are  kings  but  slaves  with  golden  chains? 
»      Talk  not  of  work,   this  is  too  sweet  a  day 
To  bow  one's  neck  and  tamely  take  the  yoke 
And  I  will  not,   while  happy  May-winds  blow. 

k 

And  if  I  fall  asleep  in  Nature's  arms, 
Like  weary  child  upon  its  mother's  breast, 
Let  no  one  passing  by  awaken  me, 
For  only  once  in  all  the  rolling  year 
Comes  holiday,  while  happy  May  winds  blow. 
MAY,   1872. 


ISOLATION. 

WE  walk  alone  through  all 'life's  various  ways, 
Through  light  and  darkness,  sorrow,  joy,  and  change; 
And  greeting  each  to  each,  through  passing  days, 
ft      Still  we  are  strange. 

We  hold  our  dear  ones  with  a  firm,   strong  grasp; 
We  hear  their  voices,  look  into  their  eyes; 
And  yet,  betwixt  us  in  that  clinging  clasp 
A  distance  lies. 

We  cannot  know-  their  hearts,   howe'er  we  may 
Mingle  thought,  aspiration,   hope  and  prayer; 
We  cannot  reach  them,  and  in  vain  essay 
To  enter  there. 


SONGS   OF   HOPE  AND   MEMORY.  119 


Still  in  each  heart  of  hearts  a  hidden  deep 
Lies,  never  fathomed  by  its  dearest,  best; 
With  closest  care  our  purest  thoughts  we  keep,' 
And  tenderest. 

But,  blessed  thought  t  we  shall  not  always  so 
In  darkness  and  in  sadness  walk  alone; 
There  comes  a  glorious  day  when  we  shall  know 
As  we  are  known. 


THE   HILL   DIFFICULTY. 

"  I  beheld  then  that  they  all  went  on  till  they  came  to  the  foot  of  the  hill  Difficulty, 
at  the  bottom  of  which  was  a  spring.  .  .  .  Christian  now  went  to  the  spring  (Isa. 
xlix.  10),  and  drank  thereof  to  refresh  himself,"  etc. — Bunyan. 

THOU  must  go  forward,  pilgrim! 

Right  up  the  hill; 
The  path  is  straight  before  thee, 

Right  onward  still. 
By  that  ascent  so  rugged, 

Thy  Lord  has  gone, 
His  people  all  must  follow — 

Press  boldly  on! 

Thou  must  go  forward,  pilgrim! 

Turn  not  aside; 
Try  not  the  tempting  bye-ways 

Others  have  tried. 
They  have  but  strayed,  and  fallen 

To  rise  no  more; 
True  danger  lies  behind  thee 

Safety  before] 


BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


Thou  must  go  forward,,  pilgrim, 

Yet  linger — stay 
One  moment  at  the  fountain, 

Here  by  the  way. 
The  Master  on  his  journey 

Opened  that  spring, 
Refreshment  to  the  weary, 

And  strength  to*  bring. 

t 

Hid  in  its  depths  of  crystal 

A  mirror  lies,. 
Where  scenes  of  coming  glory 

May  meet  thine  eyes. 
Softly  its  murmuring  waters 

Repeat  a  tale 
Of  mercy  ever  flowing, 

Never  to  fail. 


Kneel  by  the  brink  so  verdant, 

Bathe  thy  hot  brow; 
Drink  of  the  waters  deeply  — 

Speed  onward  now! 
Dread  not  the  coming  tempest, 

The  lion's  roar; 
Destruction  is  behind  thee  — 

Heaven  is  before! 

Thou  must  go  forward,  pilgrim, 

O'er  many  a  hill; 
Yet  shrink  not  from  the  prospe<5t 

Press  onward  still! 
Beside  each  mount  of  trial, 

Each  toil  or  pain, 
The  fountain  of  refreshment 

Shall  flow  again. 


SONGS   OF    HOPE   AND   MEMORY 


CIVIL    WAR. 

Written  after  the  battle  of  Mill  Springs,  and  first  published  in  the  Sliakopec 
Argus  Wednesday,  February  u,  1862. 

"RIFLEMAN,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot 

Straight  at  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  vedette; 

Ring  me  a  ball  in  the  glittering  spot 

That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an  amulet." 


"Ah,   captain,  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead; 

There's  music  around  when  my  barrel's  in  tune." 
•Crack!  went  the  rifle,  the  messenger  sped, 

And  dead  from  his  horse  fell  the  ringing  dragoon. 

"Now,   rifleman,  steal  through  the  bushes,  and  snatch 

From  your  viclim  some  trinket  to  hansel  first  blood; 
A  button,   or  loop,   or  that  luminous  patch 

That  gleams  in  the  moon  like  a  diamond  stud." 

"Oh,  captain,  I  staggered,  and  sank  on  my  track, 
When  I  gazed  on  the  face  of  that  fallen  vedette, 

For  he  looked  so  like  you,  as  he  lay  on  his  back, 

That  my  heart  rose  upon  me,  and  masters  me  yet. 

"But  I  snatched  off  the  trinket  —  this  locket  of  gold; 

An  inch  from  the  centre  my  lead  brofte  its  way, 
Scarce  grazing  the  picture,  so  fair  to  behold, 

Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  bridal  array." 

"Ha!  rifleman,  fling  me  the  locket!     'Tis  she, 

My  brother's  young  bride  —  and  the  fallen  dragoon 

Was  her  husband.     Hush,   soldier,   'twas  heaven's  decree; 
We  must  bury  him  there  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 


BALLADS   OF    LIFE, 


"But,   hark!     The  far  bugles  their  warnings  unite; 

War  is  a  virtue — weakness  a  sin; 
There's  a  lurking  and  loping  round  us  to-night  — 

Load  again,  rifleman,  keep  your  hand  inl" 


NOT  FIT   TO   BE   KISSED. 

"WHAT  ails  papa's  mouf?"  said  a  sweet  little  girl, 
Her  bright  laugh  revealing  her  teeth  white  as  pearl; 
"I  love  him  and  kiss  him,  and  sit  on  his  knee, 
But  the  kisses  don't  smell  good  when  he  kisses  me. 

"Now,  mamma" — her  eyes  op'ning  wide  as  she  spoke  — 

"Do  you  like  nasty  kisses  of  'bacco  and  smoke? 

They  might  do  for  boys,   but  for  ladies  and  girls 

I  don't  think  them  nice!"  then  she  tossed  her  bright  curls, 

"Don't  nobody's  papa  have  a  mouf  nice  and  clean 
With  kisses  like  yours,   mamma,   that's  what  I  mean? 
I  want  to  kiss  papa,   I  love  him  so  well; 
But  kisses  don't  taste  good  that  have  such  a  -smell, 

"It's  nasty  to  smoke  and  eat  'bacco,  and  spit, 
And  the  kisses  ain't  good  and  sweet,  not  a  bit;" 
And  her  innocent  face  wore  a  look  of  disgust 
As  she  gave  out  her  verdict,  so  earnest  and  just, 

Yes,  yes,   little  darling!  your  wisdom  has  seen 
That  kisses  for  daughters  and  wives  should  be  clean; 
For  kisses  lose  something  of  nectar  and  bliss 
From  mouths  that  are  stained  and  unfit  for  a  kiss, 
OCTOBER,   1864. 


SONGS   OF   HOPE  AND   MEMORY.  123 


DRIFTING. 

We  meet  as  we  have  always  met, 
And  part  as  kindly  as  before; 

We  speak  in  tender  tones,  and  yet 

We  know  that  love  is  there  no  more. 


There  was  a  time,  in  days  gone  by, 
We  truly  loved  without  deceit; 

My  love  was  all  I  had,  and  I 

Laid  down  the  trifle  at  your  feet. 


I  gave  you  all,  and  in  return 

You  gave  to  me  a  fresh  young  heart; 
But  time  that  changes  all  is  stern, 

And.  we  have  drifted  far  apart. 


We  know  that  constant  dropping  tears 
Will  wear  away  the  hardest  stone, 

And  that  an  endless  tide  of  years 

Will  leave  the  firmest  chains  undone. 


Thus  disappointments,  one  by  one, 

Will  blight  the  life,  and  hope  departs: 

And  thus  has  time  at  length  undone 

The  silken  cord  that  bound  our  hearts* 


Farewell,  for  we  must  part  at  last, 
And  if  we  ever  love  again, 

I  trust  this  lesson  of  the  past 

Will  help  Us  to  be  faithful  then. 


.  124  BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


SPEAK  THY  THOUGHT. 

IF  a  truth  has  shone  within  thee, 
Is  it  manly,  just,   or  brave  — 

Captive  of  the  world's  opinion  — 
To  conceal  the  light  it  gave? 

All  conviction  should  be  valiant, 
Tell  thy  truth  — if  truth  it  be  — 

Never  seek  to  stem  its  current, 

Thoughts  like  rivers  find  the  sea. 


Speak  thy  thought,   if  thou  believ'st  it, 
Let  it  jostle  whom  it  may, 

Every  seed  that  grows  to-morrow, 
Lies  beneath  a  clod  to-day. 


If  our  sires,   the  noble-hearted 
Pioneers  of  things  to  come, 

Had  like  thee  been  weak  and  timid, 
Traitors  to  themselves,   and  dumb, 


Where  would  be  our  free  opinion  — 
Where  the  right  to  speak  at  all, 

If  our  sires,   like  thee,   mistrustful, 
Had  been  deaf  to  duty's  call? 


Where  would  be  triumphant  science, 
Searching  with  her  fearless  eyes, 

Through  the  infinite  creation, 
For  the  soul  that  underlies. 


SONGS  OF   HOPE  AND   MEMORY.  125 

Where  would  be  those  inspirations, 

Launched  'midst  apathy  and  scorn? 

How  could  noontide  ever  greet  us, 
But  for  dawning  of  the  morn? 

Though  an  honest  thought,  outspoken, 
Lead  thee  into  chains  or  death  — 

What  is  life  compared  with  virtue, 

Shalt  thou  not  survive  thy  breath? 

Have  not  ages  long  departed, 

Groaned  and  toiled  and  bled  for\thee, 

If  the  Past  has  lent  thee  wisdom, 

Pay  it  to  Futurity.  • 

JUNE,   1878. 


MY   NATIVE   LAND. 

HURRAH!  hurrah!  my  native  land, 

Upon  our  bows  at  last, 
The  glistening  tears  around  my  heart, 

Their  evening  rainbow  cast. 
Give  back  your  foam,   ye  kindly  waves, 

And  speed  my  vessel  free, 
Old  native  hills,   I'm  coming  now, 

A  wanderer  home  to  thee. 

Be  still,  be  still,  my  throbbing  heart, 

Go  back  ye  childish  tears; 
But  oh,   I've  waited  for  this  hour, 

Through  many  weary  years. 
I've  toiled  beneath  a  burning  sun, 

And  slept  upon  the  plain, 
That  I  might  once  more  plant  my  foot- 

On  native  soil  again. 


126  BALLADS    OF    LIFE, 


The  same,  the  same,   I  know  it  well, 

It  rises  on  the  gale, 
The  sweet  old  scent  of  clover  bloom, 

From  every  flowery  vale. 
I  feel,  ah  me,  as  if  my  heart, 

Had  never4  been  away, 
And  long-dried  springs  of  early  joyr 

Flow  full  as  in  life's   May. 

Ye  smile!  ye  smile!  to  welcome  me, 

Tho'   twenty  years  are  by, 
Since  from  my  eyes  ye  stole  a  tear, 

And  from  by  breast  a  sigh. 
My  locks  were  dark  and  glossy  then, 

Though  now  they're  thin  and  gray; 
But  love  of  home  grows  riper,  aye, 

When  summer  dies, away. 

The  years!  the  years!  have  passed  me  o'err 

And  changes  I  have  seen; 
Perhaps  the  folks  that  knew  me  then, 

Will  not  be  as  they've  been. 
Perchance  the  maidens  that  I  loved, 

Will  wonder  whence  I  came, 
And  playmates  of  my  early  days 

Unheeding  ask  my  name. 

Ah  well!  ah  well!  old  native  hills, 

I  see  no  change  in  you, 
The  blue  lake's  foam  is  still  as  white, 

The  pine-clad  hills  as  blue. 
I'll  live  my  early  life  again, 

Amid  your  forests  old; 
Though  eyes  have  lost  their  glance  of  love, 

And  human  hearts  grow  cold. 


SONGS  OF  HOPE  AND  MEMORY.  127 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  my  native  land. 

Thy  pine-clad  hills  at  last, 
The  tears  are  starting  to  my  eye, 

My  heart  is  beating  fast. 
Give  back,  ye  kindly  waves,  give  back, 

And  speed  my  vessel  free; 
Old  native  hills,   I'm  coming  now, 

A  wanderer  home  to  thee. 

* 

APRIL,    1880. 


CHILDREN   AT  THEIR   PLAY. 

I've  listened  at  the  early  dawn 

The  lark  salute  the  morn, 
The  robin  and  the  linnet's  note 

Poured  from  the  blooming  thorn; 
I've  heard,  at  evening's  dewy  close, 

The  blackbird's  melting  lay, 
But  there's  no  music  half  so  sweet 

As  children  at  their  play. 

I've  heard  unrivalled  Patti  sing 

Columbia's  glorious  strains, 
And  lend  even  poesy  a  grace 

Beyond  the  poet's  pains; 
Parepa  Rosa's  marvelous  voice 

Hath  borne  my  soul  away, 
But  there's  no  music  half  so  sweet 

As  children  at  their  play. 

I've  sat  within  enchantment's  spell,. 

And  lost  to  meaner  things, 
While  Paganini's  master  hand, 

With  magic  touched  the  strings ; 


128  BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


But  there's  no  sweet-toned  instrument, 
Which  cunning  hands  essay, 

'Can  yield  a  music  to  my  heart 
Like  children  at  their  play. 

All  nature  teems  with  holiest  sounds, 

On  listening  ears  they  fall  — 
Ye  rivers,  streams,  ye  lands,  ye  waves, 

There's  music  in  you  all ; 
But  see  the  school-boys  just  let  loose, 

Exulting  bound  away  — 
Then  who  can  tell  of  music  sweet 

As  children  at  their  play? 


WE'VE   DRUNK   FROM   THE  SAME   CANTEEN. 

To  my  friend  and  comrade,  William  Brokensha. 

THERE  are  bonds  of  all  sorts  in  this  world  of  ours  — 
Fetters  of  friendship  and  ties  of  flowers  — 

And  true  lover's  knots,   I  ween. 
The  boy  and  the  girl  are  bound  by  a  kiss, 
JBut  there's  never  a  bond,  old  friend,  like  this  — 

We  have  drunk  from  the  same  canteen. 

« 

It  was  sometimes  water,  and  sometimes  milk, 
Sometimes  apple-jack,  fine  as  silk  ; 

But  whatever  the  tipple  has  been, 
We  shared  it  together  in  bane  or  bliss, 
And  I  warm  to  you,   friend,  when  I  think  of  this  — 

We  have  drunk  from  the  same  canteen. 


SONGS   OF   HOPE  AND  MEMORY.  129 

The  rich  and  great  sit  down  to  dine, 
And  quaff  to  each  other  in  sparkling  wine, 

From  glasses  of  chrystal  and  green  — 
But  I  guess  in  their  golden  potations  they  miss 
The  warmth  of  regard  to  be  found  in  this  — 

We  have  drunk  from  the  same  canteen. 

We've  shared  our  blankets  and  tent  together, 
And  marched  and  fought  in  all  kinds  of  weather, 

And  hungry  and  full  we've  been;  I 

Had  days  of  battle  and  days  of  rest, 
But  this  memory  I  cling  to  and  love  the  best  — 

We  have  drunk  from  the  same  canteen. 

For  when  wounded  I  lay  on  the  outer  slope, 
With  my  blood  flowing  fast  and  but  little  hope 

On  which  my  faint  spirit  might  lean, 
Oh!  then,   I  remember,  you  crawled  to  my  side, 
And,  bleeding  so  fast,   it  seemed  both  must  have  died — 

Yes,  we  drank  from  the  same  canteen. 


WHO   WAS   HE? 

The  following  was  written  in  a  soldiers'  hospital,  not  long  after  the  battle  of 
Stone  River,  and  first  published  in  the  Shakopee  Argus,  Wednesday,  February  iSth, 
1863.  It  is  here  given  as  originally  published. 

INTO  a  ward  of  the  canvas  hall, 

Where  the  wounded  and  dying  lay  — 
Wounded  by  shell,  or  bayonet,  or  ball, 

Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one  day; 
He  who  was  gallant,  and  daring,  and  brave, 

Yet  bearing  on  his  pale  sweet  face, 
(Soon  to  be  hid  by  the  dust  of  the  grave), 

The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood's  grace. 


130  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


Matted  and  clotted  the  locks  of  gold, 

That  once  lay  smooth  on  that  fair  young  brow; 
Mute  are  those  lips  with  a  tale  untold, 

For  somebody's  darling  is  dying  now; 
Smooth  from  his  beautiful  manly  brow 

Back  that  straying  lock  of  gold, 
Fold  his  hands  on  his  bosom  now  — 

They  are  already  growing  cold. 

Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake,' 

Breathe  a  prayer,   though  soft  and  low; 
A  tiny  lock  from  his  temples  take  — 

No  fairer  prize  for  a  mother,   you  know; 
Haply  her  hand  hath  rested  there, 

Or  was  it  a  sister's,   soft  and  white? 
Did  they  stroke  those  locks  —  the  saddened  pair — 

When  he  marched  away  in  the  morning  light? 

God  only  knows,  he  was  somebody's  love  — 

To  somebody  he  was  the  joy  and  pride; 
Somebody  wafted  his  name  above, 

Night  and  morning  and  even   tide. 
Somebody  wept  when  he  marched  away, 

Looking  so  handsome,   hopeful  and  grand; 
Somebody's  kiss  on  his  forehead  lay, 

Somebody  clung  to  his  parting  hand. 

Someone  at  home  is  waiting  for  him, 

Yearning  to  hold  him  again  to  her  heart; 
But  there  he  lies,  with  his  bright  eyes  dim, 

And  the  smiling  childlike  lips  apart; 
Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead, 

Unknown  though  it  be  the  name  he  should  bear, 
Yet  carve  on  the  rude  slab  at  his  head, 

SOMEONE'S  DARLING  REPOSES  HERE. 


SONGS   OF   HOPE   AM)   MEMORY.  133 


.  THE   MOUNTAIN   BOY. 

BENEATH  my  feet  the  valleys  lie, 
A  mountain  shepherd  boy  am  I; 
The  sunbeams  bright,   here  first  I  see — 
They  tarry  longest  here  with  me, 

For  I'm  the  mountain  boy. 

The  mountain  boy,  the  mountain  boy, 

For  I'm  the  mountain  boy. 


Here  is  the  fountain's  secret  home, 

My  drink  comes  fresh  from  rock  and  foam — 

It  springs  o'er  rocks  in  wild  career, 

Its  sound  is  music  to  my  ear, 

For  I'm  the  mountain  boy,  etc. 

• 

The  mountain  truly  is  my  own, 
The  storms  may  rage  and  weirdly  moan, 
And  sweep  from  north  to  south  along, 
O'er  all  still  rings  my  cheerful  song, 
I  am  the  mountain  boy,  etc. 

When  thunders  roll  and  lightnings  flash, 
I  stand  above  the  stormy  crash; 
What  care  I  for  the  storm-king's  glance, 
Above  me  spreads  the  blue  expanse, 
For  I'm  the  mountain  boy,  etc. 

And  should  Columbia  call  to  arms, 
Should  foemen  fierce  spread  dire  alarms; 
Then  we'll  descend  and  join  the  throng, 
And  wield  our  swords,  and  sing  our  song, 
For  we're  the  mountain  boys,    etc. 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


TOWARD   SUNSET. 

THE  sun  of  life  has  passed  its  noon, 
The  shadows  stretch  away, 

And,  deepening  into  denser  gloom, 
Foretell  the  close  of  day. 

Weary  and  fainting  where  we  stand 

We  reach  to  grasp  our  Father's  hand. 

One  after  one  the  fleeting  hours 

Have  banished  life's  bright  schemes; 

The  springtide  joys  that  once  were  ours, 
The  summer  noon-day  dreams, 

How  soon,  alas,   they  pass  from  sight, 

And  leave  us  but  a  winter  night. 

•  i 

But  not  entirely  cold  and  sad 

The  days  of  years  now  flown; 

Full  many  a  morn  and  evening  had 
A  brightness  of  their  own. 

Content  looks  forward  full  of  cheer 

To  all  that  may  await  us  here. 

There  is  a  land  where  night  or  cloud 

No  sombre  shadows  fling, 
Where  wailing  blasts  arid  tempests  loud 

No  solemn  requiem  sing; 
But  all  is  calm-,  serene  and  fair; 
Eternal  noon-day  reigneth  there. 

There  is  a  land,   and  oh,  how  blest, 

The  souls  forever  free, 
Who  wander  'mid  its  vales,  or  rest 


SONGS   OF   HOPE   AND   MEMORY.  135 

1 , 

Beneath  Life's  spreading  tree: 
And  dread  no  parting  grief  to  share, 
But  dwell  in  love  together  there. 

In  nature's  course  'tis  yours  and  mine, 

Ere  long  to  tread  that  shore ; 
To  join,  beyond  the  realm  of  time, 

Those  who  have  gone  before: 
Who  wait  upon  the  golden  strand, 
And  beckon  us  with  outstretched  hand. 


THE   BACHELOR'S  CONFESSION. 

OH!  my  bachelor-life  is  jolly  and  free; 

No  curtain-leclures  to  harass  the  "wee 

Sma'  hours;"  no  babies  around  my  knee; 

Nobody  to  scold  about  the  night  key, 

Or  to  open  my  letters,  or  cry  to  see 

The  bill  (?)  that  my  tailor  (?)  marked  "Private"  to  me. 

The  wine  that  I  sip  is  sweet — ah!  sweet; 
And  every  hour,  With  joy  replete, 
Maketh  a  perfect  whole,  complete ; 
Morning,  and  noontide,  and  evening  greet 
With  laughter,  and  speed  with  flying  feet — 
Each  a  rose-crowned  god,  a  Mercury  fleet. 

I  never  shall  marry:     Why  should  I?     Why 
Should  I  shackle  my  life,  and  madly  fly 
Into  a  knot  I  can  never  untie? 
Why  cloud  the  sun  in  the  summer-sky? 
I  might  as  well  give  up  the  ghost  and  die 
As  to  marry.     Why  should  I  —  I? 


136  BALLADS   OF   LIFE, 


No!  I'm  not  a  cynic,  or  bitter,   or  cold; 
I  love  each  thread  of  the  waving  gold 
That  falls  with  crinkle,   and  curl,   and  fold, 
Over  your  shoulders  of  faultless  mold  ; 
Your  eyes  that  are  blue  as  the  heavens  old,, 
Oft  stir  my  heart  with  a  thrill  untold. 

But  I  love  a  dozen  besides.     I  fell 
Into  the  habit  when  young,  my  belle ; 
And,  if  I  were  a  benedicl,   I'd  rebel, 
Or  forget,  and  love  my  neighbor  so  well 
That  Grundy  the  story  would  swiftly  tell, 
The  scan.  mag.  page  of  the   Times  to  swell. 

No  heart?    Oh!  there's  where  the  mischief  lies ; 

The  troublesome  thing  will  leap  and,  rise 

Into  my  throat  when  starry  eyes 

(Angels  I'am  sure,  in  human  guise,) 

Look  into  mine  with  a  sweet  surprise, 

As  if  they  had  just  strayed  out  of  the  skies. 

Still,   I  never  shall  marry.   You  call  me  a  "Bear," 
A  "Heathen,"    "Blase,"  and  say  "You  don't  care; 
You'd  pity  my  wife  if  one  fell  in  a  snare 
I  set  to  trap  her."   I  pray  you  forbear; 
Don't  say  what  you  know  isn't  true  or  fair, 
Without  rhyme  or  reason,  neither  here  nor  there. 

And  don't  repeat  that  you  wouldn't  have  me! 

It  may  not  be  gallant,  but  there  we  agree; 

You're  a  flirt;  I'm  a  "Bear;"  so  don't  you  see 

A  more  wretched  union  could  never  be? 

Ere  the  honeymoon  waned  I  should  pine  to  be  free,. 

Like  a  Neptune  chained  far  away  from  the  sea. 


SONGS   OF    HOPE  AND   MEMORY.  137 


(  ''Been  happier?"     Bother,  don't  trouble  me,  pet, 
To  think  about  things  I  should  like  to  forget. 
I  have  friends  and  money,  and  never  fret; 
I  am  jolly,   and  free;  and  yet  —  and  yet  — 
Pshaw !  why  waste  time  in  a  useless  regret  ? 
Though  life  is  not  bliss  'twere  folly  to  fret, 
Or  mourn  o'er  the  past  for  what  fate  would  not  let. 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM  VARIOUS  AUTHORS. 


THE   LAND  OF   REST.   . 

(FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND). 

THERE  is  a  land  where  beauty  will  not  fade, 

Nor  sorrow  dim  the  eye; 
Where  true  hearts  will  not  sink  nor  be  dismayed,. 

And  love  will  never  die. 
Tell  me,   I  fain  would  go, 
For  I  am  burdened  with  a  heavy  woe; 
The  beautiful  have  left  me  all  alone; 
The  true,  the  tender,  from  my  gaze  have  gone, 
And  I  am  weak  and  fainting  with  despair; 
Where  is  it?     Tell  me  where? 

Friend,  thou  must  trust  to  Him  who  trod  before 

The  lonely  path, of  life; 
Must  bear  in  meekness,  as  He  meekly  bore, 

Sorrow,  and  toil,  and  strife. 
Think  how  the  Son  of  God 
These  thorny  paths  has  trod; 
Think  how  He  longed  to  go, 
Yet  tarried  out  for  thee,.  the  appointed  woe. 

ThinK  of  his  loneliness  in  places  dim, 

When  no  man  comforted  nor  cared  for  Him: 

Think  how  He  prayed,   unaided  and  alone, 

In  that  dread  agony,    "Thy  will  be  done!" 

Friend  do  not  then  despair, 

Christ,  in  his  heaven  of  heavens,  will  hear  thy  prayer. 


TRANSLATIONS.  139 


ETERNITY. 

(TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN). 

ETERNITY!  Eternity! 
How  long  art  thou  eternity? 
Yet  swiftly  time  sweeps  on  to  thee  — 
Swift  as  the  steed  to  viclory, 
The  flying  post,  the  speeding  bark, 
The  arrow  hasting  to  the  mark.    . 

Eternity!  Eternity! 
How  long  art  thou,   eternity? 
As  on  a  sphere  no  eye  may  scan, 
Or  where  it  ends,  or  where  began; 
Eternity!  within  thy  round, 
Nor  spring  nor  issue  can  be  found. 

Eternity!  Eternity! 
How  long  art  thou,  eternity? 
Within  a  circle  hidest  thou, 
Whose  centre  is  a  constant  now, 
Whose  circuit  as  a  perpetual  never, 
Receding  ever  and  for  ever. 

Eternity!  Eternity! 
How  long  art  thou,  eternity? 
A  swallow  might  be  tasked  to  drain 
The  world's  huge  substance,  hill  and  plain, 
Each  thousand  years  a  single  grain; 
Yet  wouldst  thou  then,  as  now,  remain. 

Eternity!  Eternity! 
How  long  art  thou,  eternity? 
The  ocean's  sands  and  drops  we  count 


140  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 

The  fraction  of  a  whole  amount; 
The  mighty  cycles  of  thine  age, 
No  calculus  could  ever  guage. 

Eternity!  Eternity! 
How  long  art  thou,  eternity? 
Mortal!  as  long  as  God  shall  be, 
So  long  shall  my  swift  current  flow, 
So  shall  thine  endless  being  be 
For  thou  shalt  live  and  thou  shalt  know. 


EARTH'S  TRIBUTE. 

The  poet,  Arthur  Mueller,  one  of  the  editors  of  The  Gartenlanbe,  committed 
suicide  at  Munich.  A  few  hours  before  his  death  he  wrote  the  poem,  the  translation 
of  which  is  given  below: 

O,   EARTH,  my  mother  —  take  again  thy  son 
From  all  this  wretched,   narrow  littleness, 
This  low,  abhorrent  creeping  pitifulness. 
Mother  of  all,  would  that  my  race  were  run! 

All  powerfully  I  am  drawn  out  and  up, 

My  soul  would  mingle  with  eternity, 

And  for  a  breath  of  perfect  purity, 

Down  to  the  dregs  have  I  now  drained  life's  cup. 

My  work  is  now  complete.     For  I  have  tried,   in  sooth 
Struggled  and  suffered  for  liberty  and  truth. 
What  besides  wounds  this  life  has  left  at  length, 
Is  but  a  vapid  shadow  of  my  former  strength. 

Let  me  in  silence  sleep  upon  thy  breast  — 

O,  earth,  my  mother!     Give  thy  tired  son  rest  — 

Silently  rest;  and  be  a  part  of  you, 

Mother,  thou  knowest  that  it  is  my  due. 


TRANSLATIONS, 


PAIN'S  furnace-heat  within  me  quivers, 

God's  breath  upon  the  flames  doth  blow, 
And  all  my  heart  in  anguish  shivers, 
And  trembles  at  the  fiery  glow, 
And  yet  I  whisper:  As  God  will! 
And,  in  His  hottest  fire,  hold  still. 


i 


He  comes  and  lays  my  heart  all  heated 
On  the  hard  anvil,  minded  so 

Into  His  own  fair  shape  to  beat  it, 

With  His  great  hammer,  blow  on  blow. 

And  yet  I  whisper:  As  God  will! 

And,  at  His  heaviest  blows,   hold  still. 

He  takes  my  softened  heart,  and  beats  it, 
The  sparks  fly  off  at  every  blow. 

He  turns  it  o'er  and  o'er  and  heats  it, 
And  lets  it  cool  and  makes  it  glow. 

And  yet  I  whisper:  As  God  will! 

And  in  His  mighty  hand  hold  still. 

Why  should  I  murmur?     For  the  sorrow 

•  Thus  only  longer-lived  would  be. 
Its  end  may  come,  and  will  to-morrow, 

When  God  has  done  his  work  in  me. 
So  I  say,  trusting:  As  God  will! 
And,   trusting  to  the  end,  hold  still. 

He  kindles  for  my  profit,  purely 
Affliction's  glowing,  fiery  brand, 

And  all  His  heaviest  blows  are  surely 
Inflicted  by  a  Master-hand; 

So  I  say,  praying:  As  God  will! 

And,  hoping  in  His  love,  hold  still. 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


TROSTEWORTE  AN  CHRISTLICHE  ELTERN  BEIM 
FRUHER  VERLUFT IHRER  KINDER. 

i 

(DR.    KARL   VICTOR    RITTERMAXN.) 

SiE  sind  gestorben  aber  nicht  verloren, 
Die  Kleinen  deren  Tod  ihr  fruh  beweint! 
Der  Herr  hat  sie  zu  Pflantzen  sich  erkoren, 
Zu  bliiken  wo  die  ewige  Sonne  scheint. 

Schaut  nicht  zuriick,  blickt  hoher  als  auf  Griifte  — 
Die  Gruft,  sie  birgt  mer  moderndes  Gebein, 
Den  Geist  umweh'n  des  Paradieses  dufte 
In  Gottes  Garten  friihlingsmild  und  rein. 

Sind  bitter  auch  der  friihen  Trennung  Schmertzen 
Sind  sie  doch  kurtz  und  bios  der  Leib  getrennt, 
Die  Liebe  einigt  trotz  dem  Grab  die  Hertzen, 
Die  Liebe  welche  keinen  Wechsel  kennt. 

Schon  winkf  nach  Tod  und  diisterm  Trennungsgrauen 

Des  Wiedersehens  freundlich  Morgenroth, 

Schon  tagt  der  Glaube  iiber  Friihlingsauen  . 

Und  webt  der  Hoffnung  Schleier  liber  Grab  und  Tod. 

1st  auch  des  Kindes  Pliitzchen  in  dem  Hause 
Der  Sonntagschule  und  der  Kirche  leer. 
Ist's  doch  entriickt  der  Erde  Sturmgebrause 
Singt  seine  "Jubeltone"  dort  am  glasern  Meer. 

Es  kniet  nicht  mehr  der  Mutter  still  zur  Zeite 
Und  lalt  mit  frommem  Sinne  sein  Gebet, 
Doch  betet's  in  Verklarung  voller  Freude 
*Wo  man  nur  dankt,   nicht  mehr  als  Sunder  fleht. 


TRANSLATIONS.  143 


COMFORTING  WORDS  TO  THOSE  WHO   HAVE 
LOST  THEIR   CHILDREN. 

(TRANSLATED  FROM  UITTERMANX.'I 

THEY  have  passed  hence,  but  they're  not  lost  forever, 
Those  little  ones  v/hose  fate  ye  early  mourn— 

Those  flowers,  the  Master  for  Himself  hath  gathered 
To  bloom  eternal,  and  e'en  heaven  adorn. 

Call  them  not  back,   look  higher  than  the  grave — 
The  grave  but  holds  their  moldering  remains  — 

Their  spirits  now,   by  heavenly  breezes  fanned, 

Dwell  in  the  land  where  spring  eternal  reigns. 

'Twas  bitter,  sad,   the  smart  of  early  parting, 
'Tis  only  short,  and  unto  mortals  strange; 

Love  still  unites,   in  spite  of  death  and  sorrow  — 
Eternal  love,  which  knows  no  time  or  change. 

Already  gleams  'yond  death's  dark  separation, 

The  resurrection  morning's  spring-like  breath  — 
E'en  now  Faith  wafts  us  over  blooming  fields  — 
Hope  weaves  assurance  over  grave  and  death. 

The  children  now  no  more  in  wonted  places 

Are  found  at  school,  or  where  they  used  to  roam, 

While  still  we  hear  the  rustling  of  death's  tempest — 
They  sing  triumphant  in  their  spirit  home. 

They  kneel  no  more  by  mother's  knee  so  quiet, 

And  lisp  with  pious  voice  the  children's  prayer  — 

Now  prayer  is  changed  to  praise,  and  grief  to  gladness 
Where  saints  but  thank,  not  plead,  as  sinners  there. 


144  BALLADS  OF  LIFE. 

Es  wrartet  auch  im  Engelchor  der  kleinen 

Wohl  an  des  Paradieses  goldenem  Thor, 

Bis  seine  lieben  Eltern  dort  erscheinen 

Und  fuhrt  sie  jubelnd  zu  dem  Strahlenlhron  empor. 

Ein  kind  im  Himmel — heiliger  Gedanke! 

Ein  kind  im  Himmel — himlicher  Magnet! 

Er  zieht  den  Geist  durch  Welt  und  ihre  Schranke. 

Bis  er  im  Wiederseh'n  vor  Gottes  Throne  steht. 


TREtJfe  UND  REDLICHKEIT. 

UEB  immer  Treue  und  Redlichkeit 

Bis  an  dein  kiihles  Grab, 
Und  weiche  keinen  Finger  breit, 

Von  Gottes  wegen  ab. 

Dann  wirst  du  wie  auf  griinen  Auen, 

Durchs  Pilgerleben  geh'n; 
Daun  Kannst  du  ohne  Furcht  und  Grau'n 

Dem  Tod'  ins  Auge  seh'n. 

Dann  wird  die  Sichel  und  der  Pflug 

Dir  in  der  Haud  se  leicht; 
Dann  singest  du  beim  Wasserkrug, 

Als  war  dir  wein  gereicht. 

Dann  segnen  Eukel  deine  Gruft 
Und  weinen  Thraneu  drauf, 

Und  Sommerblumen  voller  duft 
Bliih'n  ans  deu  Thranen  auf. 


They're  waiting  there  in  angel  choir,  the  loved  ones. 

Close  on  to  Paradise's  golden  door — 
Till  parents  loved,  in  triumph  there  appearing. 

Then  lead  them  joyful  o'er  the  starry  floor. 

A  child  in  heaven!  O,  the  holy  thought! 

A  child  in  heaven!  O,  attractive  wand! 
It  draws  the  spirit  from  life's  care  and  sorrow. 

Till  from  death's  waking  at  heaven's  gate  we  stand.    , 


FIDELITY  AND  HONESTY. 

LIVE  ever  true  and  honestly, 

Even  to  the  dark  cold  grave, 

And  never  swerve  a  finger  breadth 
From  laws  the  Savior  gave. 

Then  whilst  thou,  as  on  meadows  green, 

Thy  life's  short  journey  go, 
Then  canst  thou  look  death  in  the  face, 

Nor  fear  or  trembling  know. 

Then  will  the  sickle  and  die  plow, 
Seem  tight  in  hands  of  thine; 

Then  wilst  thou  sing  at  water-flask, 
As  though  they  gave  thee  wine. 

Then  children's  children  on  thy  grave 
Shall  weep  with  happy  tears, 

And  out  those  tears  sweet  summer  flowers 
Shall  bloom  in  after  years. 


146  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 

I 

DER   TAUCHER. 

(A  GERMAN  LEGEND). 

WER  wagt  es  Rittersmann  oder  Knapp, 

Zu  tauchen  in  diesen  Schlund, 
Einen  goldnen  Becher  werf  ich  hinab, 

Verschlungen  schon  hat  in  der  schwartze  Mund, 
Wer  mir  den  Becher  kann  wieder  zeigen, 
Er  mag  ihn  behatten,   er  ist  sein  eigen. 

Der  Konig  spricht  es  und  wirft  von  der  Hoh, 
Der  Klippe,  die  schroft  und  steil, — 

Hinaushangt  in  die  unendliche  See 

Den  Becher  in  der  Charybde  Geheul, 

Wer  ist  der  Behertze,   ich  frage  wieder 

Zu  tauchen  in  diese  Tiefe  neider. 

Und  die  Ritter,   die  Knappen  um  ihn  her, 

Vernehmen's  und  schweigen  still, 
Sehen  hinab  im  wilde  Meer, 

.Und  keiner  den  Becher  gewinnen  will, 
Und  der  Konig  zum  dritten  mal  wieder  fraget, 
"Ist  Keiner  der  sich  hinunter  waget." 

Doch  Alles  noch  stumm  bleibt  wie  zuvor, 
Und  ein  Edelknecht  sanft  und  keck, 

Tritt  aus  der  Knappen  zagendem  Chor, 
Und  den  Giirtel  wirft  den  Mantel  weg, 

Und  alle  die  Manner  umher  und  Frauen 

Auf  den  herlichen  Jiingling  verwundert  schanen. 

Und  wie  er  tritt  des  Felsen  Hang, 

Und  bli6l  in  den  Schlund  hinab, 
Die  Wasser  die  sie  hinunter   schlang, 


TRANSLATIONS.  147 


A   LEGEND   OF  THE   MAELSTROM, 

(TRANSLATED   FROM   SCHILLER). 

WHO  will  venture  of  all  ye  noblemen  bold, 

To  dive  in  this  whirling  abyss? 
I  throw  in  the  maelstrom  this  goblet  of  gold  — 

'Tis  already  engulfed,  the  dark  waters  hiss; 
Whoever  that  cup  from  the  depths  snail  regain, 
His  prize  it  shall  be  evermore  to  retain. 

The  king  while  thus  speaking  the  goblet  had  flung 
To  the  depths  'neath  the  cliff's  rugged  steep, 

Which  o'er  the  dark  waves  of  the  wild  torrent  hung; 
"Who  dares  for  the  goblet  go  down  in  the  deep? 

Who  is  the  brave-hearted,   come  hither  to  me 

Who  dares  to  dive  down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea.  " 

The  noblemen  stand  there,  nor  venture  a  motion, 

They  all  hear  it  but  no  one  replies, 
They  silently  gaze  on  the  dark  depths  of  ocean  — 

None  wish  to  attempt  the  bold  deed  for  the  prize; 
Then  arose  th«^  king's  voice  o'er  the  whirlpool's  weird  sound, 
And  three  times  repeated,    "  Can  *no  one  be  found?" 

In  silence  they  stood,   by  the  monarch's  words  cowed, 

Till  a  youth,  gentle,   noble  and  brave, 
Stepped  fearlessly  out  from  the  tremulous  crowd 

And  prepared  for  a  plunge  in  the  wave; 
The  lords  and  the  ladies  are  lost  in  amaze, 
And  silently  at  the  youth  wonderingly  gaze. 

As  he  stepped  to  the  brink,   it  hisses  and  lashes 

Like  water  which  quenches  a  brand; 
High  up  the  dampening  spray  surges  and  splashes, 


I48  •  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


Die  Charybde  jetzt  brullend  wiedergab, 
Und  wie  mit  des  fernen  Donners  Getose, 
Enstiirtzen  sie  schaiimend  dem  finstern  Schoose. 

Doch  endlich  da  legt  sich  die  wilde  Gewalt, 
Und  schwartz  ans  dem  weissen  Schaum 

Klaftt  hinunter  ein  gahnender  Spalt, 

Grundlos,  als  ging's  in  den  Hollenraum, 

Und  reissend  sieht  man  die  brandenden  Wogen, 

Hinab  in  strudelnden  Trichter  gezogen. 

'clzt  schnell  eh'die  Brandung  wiederkehrt, 
Der  Jungling  sich  zu  Gott  befiehlt, 

Und — ein  Schrei  des  Entsetzens  wird  rings  gehort, 
Und  schon  hat  ihn  der  Wirbel  hinweggespult, 

Und  geheirnnissvoll  uber  dem  kiihnen  Schwimmer 

Schliesst  sich  der  Rachen;  er  zeigt  sich  nimmer. 

Wohl  manches  Fahtzeug  vom  Strudel  gefasst, 

Schoss  g'ah  in  die  Tiefe  hinab, 
Doch  zerschmettert  nur  rangen  sich  Kiel  und  Mast, 

Hervor  aus  dem  Alles  verschlingenden  Grab, 
Und  heller  und  heller  wie  Sturm  es  Sausen, 
Hort  man's  naher  und  immer  naher  brausen. 


Und  sieh!  ans  dem  finstern  flutenden  Schoos, 

Da  habet  sich's  schwanen  weiss, 
Und  ein  Arm  und  ein  glanzender  Nacken  wird  bloss, 

Und  es  rudert  mit  Kraft  und  mit  emsigem  Fleiss, 
Und  er  ist's  und  hoch  in  seiner  Linken 
Schwinkt  er  den  Becher  mit  freudigem  Winken. 

Und  athmete  lang  und  athmete  tief, 

Und  begruste  das  himmlische  Licht, 
Mit  Frohlocken  es  einer  dem  Andern  rief; 


Floating  on  the  wild  waves  of  that  dark  heaving  tomb, 
What  see  ye  like  swan  neck  so  white? 

'Tis  the  arm  of  the  diver  who  peers  from  the  gloom, 
And  floats  on  the  waves  in  their  eddying  flight. 


TRANSLATIONS.  151 


And  flood  after  flood  rolls  on  without  end  — 
Endless,  exhausted,  with  roar  like  far  thunder, 
Filling  beholders  with  terror  and  wonder. 

But  seeming  at  length,  the  mad,  wild  billows  cease, 
And,  black  'midst  the  foaming  white  spray, 

Wide  opens  a  fathomless,  gloomy  abyss, 

As  if  to  hell's  regions  of  darkness  the  way; 

Swiftly  onward  the  furious  breakers  are  borne, 

Or  down  in  the  depths  of  the  vortex  are  drawn. 

Now,  quick,  while  a  moment  the  breakers  more  still, 

To  heaven  he  confideth  his  soul; 
A  plunge  —  a  wild  cry  of  horror,  so  shrill  — 

And  o'er  him  the  whirlpool's  wild  surging  waves  roll  — 
The  jaws  of  the  water-cave  over  him  close, 
And  but  to  the  diver  its  secrets  disclose. 

"Farewell,  gallant  youth,"  cried  the  king  "thou  art  brave, 

From  our  sight  thou  art  evermore  past, 
For  many  the  proud  bark  that  sails  o'er  the  wave 

The  vortex  resistless  has  torn  keel .  from  mast. 
What  those  howling  depths  dark  in  their  bosom  conceal, 
No  living  soul  ever  to  us  will  reveal." 


Floating  on  the  wild  waves  of  that  dark-heaving  tomb, 
What  see  ye  like  swan  neck  so  white? 

'Tis  the  arm  of  the  diver  who  peers  from  the  gloom, 
And  floats  on  .the  waves  in  their  eddying  flight, 

It  is  he,  with  what  joy,  he  raises  his  hand, 

And  waves  the  gold  goblet  to  those  on  the  strand. 

Exhausted  he  lay,  breaths  long  and  deep  drew, 

When  returned  to  the  sun's  lovely  light, 
The  courtiers  with  joy  shout  to  each  as  they  view: 


I52  BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


"Er  lebt!  er  ist  da!  es  behiclt  ihn  nicht, 
Aus  clem  Grab  aus  den  strudelnden  Wasserhohle, 
Hat  der  Brave  gerettet  die  lebende  Seele." 

Und  er  kommt,  es  umringt  ihn  die  jubelnde  Schaar; 

Zu  des  Konigs  Fussen  er  sinkt, 
Den  Becher  reicht  er  ihm  kniend  dar, 

Und  der  Konig  der  lieblichen  Tochter  winkt, 
Die  fill  It  ihn  mit  funkelndem  Wein  bis  zum  Rande, 
Und  der  Jungling  sich  also  zum  Konig  wandte. 

Lang  lebe  der  Konig!  Es  freue  sich, 

Wer  da  athmet  im  rosigten  Licht! 
Da  unten  aber  ist's  fiirchterlich, 

Und  der  Mensch  versuche  die  Gotter  nicht, 
Und  begehre  nimmer  und  nimmer  zu  schauen, 
Was  sie  gnadig  bedecken  mit  Nacht  und  Grauen. 

Es  riss  mich  hinunter  blitzesschnell, 

Da  stiirtzt  mir  aus  felsigtem  Schacht, 

Wild  flutend  entgegen  ein  reissender  Quell, 

Mich  pact  des  Doppelstroms  wuthende  Macht, 

Und  wie  einen  Kreisel  mit  schwindelndem  Drehen, 

Trieb  mich's  urn,   ich  konnte  nicht  wiederstehen. 

Den  unter  mir  lag's  noch  bergetief, 

In  purpurner  Finsterniss  da, 
Und  obs  hier  dem  Ohre  gleich  ewig  schlief, 

Das  Auge  mit  Schaudern  hinunter  sat, 
Und  drauend  wies  mir  die  grimmigen  Zahne, 
Der  entsetzliche  Hay,  des  Meeres  Hyane. 

Und  da  hing  ich  und  war's  mir  mit  Gruusen  bewusst, 

Von  der  menschlichen  Hiilfe  so  weit, 
Unter  Larven  die  einzige  fuhlende  Brust, 


TRANSLATIONS.  153 


"He  is  living,  he  comes,  from  the  regions  of  night, 
He  has  vanquished  the  foe,  and  from  out  the  dark  wave 
Comes  the  living  soul  saved  by  the  hand  of  the  brave." 

Rejoice!  around  him  they  gather  in  glee, 

Who  has  rescued  the  prize  from  the  ocean; 
At  the  king's  feet  he  offers  the  cup  on  bent  knee, 

The  king  cries,  "  Bring  wine,"  to  his  daughter  makes  motion; 
The  lovely  maid  fills  it  with  wine  to  the  brim, 
To  the  king  turned  the  youth,  and  thus  addressed  him  — 

"Long  life  to  the  king,  may  he  happy  e'er  be, 

And  breathe  in  the  glad  sunny  ray, 
For  fearful  it  is  in  the  depths  of  the  sea; 

In  the  secrets  of  God  let  mortal  ne'er  pry, 
Or  dare  evermore  to  bring  to  the  light 
What  His  mercy  has  hidden  'neath  terror  and  night. 

"  With  tempestuous  speed  as  it  tore  me  along, 

What  torrents  from  dark  caverns  gushed; 
A  billowy  flood  so  resistless  and  strong, 

That  it  seized  me  and  tossed  me,  as  o'er  me  it  rushed, 
Like  a  pebble  it  hurled  me,  for  vain  is  the  dream, 
Of  mortal  contending  'gainst  the  might  of  that  stream. 

"Far  beneath  me  the  sea  as  a  mountain  was  deep, 

In  darkness  and  silence  it  rolled; 
There  monsters  were  swarming  in  fearful  array, 

With  a  shudder  of  horror  the  eye  could  behold, 
And  menacing  gleamed  the  white  teeth  in  the  dark 
Of  the  ocean's  hyena,  the  terrible  shark. 

"By  horrors  oppressed  to  the  great  God  I  cried, 

There  far  from  humanity's  aid, 
And  there  on  a  cliff  jutting  out  at  my  side, 


154  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


Allein  in  der  gr^sslichen  Einsamkeit, 
Tief  unter  dem  Schall  der  menschlichen  Rede, 
Bei  den  Ungeheuern  der  traurigen  Ode. 

Und  schaudernd  dacht'   ieh's  da  kroch's  heran, 

Regte  hundert  Gelenke  zugleich, 
Will  schnappen  nach  mir  in  des  Shrecken's  Wahn, 

Lass  ich  los  der  Koralle  umklamerten  Zweig, 
Gleich  fasst  mich  der  Strudel  mit  rasendem  Toben, 
Doch  es  war  mir  zum   Heil,   er  riss  mich  Oben." 

Der  Konig  darob  sich  verwundert  schier, 

Und  spricht   "der  Becher  ist  dein, 
Und  diesen  Ring  noch  bestimm'   ich  dir, 

Geschmiickt  mit  dem  kostlichsten  Edelstein, 
Versuchst  du's  noch  einmal  und  bringst  mir  Kunde, 
Was  du  sahst  auf  des  Meeres  tiefunterstein  Grunde. 

Das  horte  die  Tochter  mit  weichem  Gefuhl, 
Und  mit  schmeichelndem  Munde  sie  fleht; 

"Lass,   Vater,  genug  sein  das  grausame  Spiel! 
Er  hat  euch  bestanden,  was  Keiner  besteht, 

Und  konnt  ihr  des  Hertzens  Gelusten  nicht  zahmen, 

So  mogen  die  Ritter.  den  Knappen  beschamen." 

Drauf  der  Konig  greift  nach  dem  Becher  schnell, 
In  den  Strudel  ihn  schleudert  hinein, 

Und  schaffst  du  den  Becher  mir  wieder  zur  Stell, 
So  sollst  du  der  trefflichste  Ritter  mir  sein, 

Und  sollst  sie  als  Ehgemahl  heut'  noch  umarmen, 

Die  jetzt  fiir  dich  bittet  mit  -zartem    erbarmen." 

Da  ergrieft's  ihm  die  Seele  mit  Himmelsgewalt, 

Und  es  blitzt  aus  den  Augen  ihm  kiihn, 
Und  er  sieht  errothen  die  schone  Gestalt, 


TRANSLATIONS.  155 


Surrounded  by  corals  the  goblet  was  laid; 
Deep,  deep  where  the  accents  of  man  never  rung, 
To  a  cliff  'midst  the  monsters  of  ocean  I  hung. 

"'Mid  demons,  the  only  one  sensitive  breast, 

I  shuddered,  for  lo!  the  monsters  crept  near  — 
Those  hideous  forms  which  those  regions  infest 

Drew  near  me  —  in  the  madness  of  fear, 
I  let  go  the  cliff  for  the  horrors  before  mer 
O  thanks!  the  furious  current  up  bore  me.'" 

At  this  tale  wonderment  shadowed  the  king, 

And  he  cried,    "Brave  youth,  the  goblet  is  thine; 

Bold  swimmer  still  more,   I  will  give  thee  this  ring, 

'Tis  set  with  rare  gems  as  e'er  came  from  the  mine, 

If  once  more  thou  wilt  dive,   bring  word  unto  me, 

What  exists  farther  down  on  the  floor  of  the  sea." 

As  the  daughter  heard  this  she  was  filled  with  emotion, 

Love  and  pity  caressingly  plead, 
"Cease,  father  this  cruel  sport  with  the  ocean; 

The  youth  is  proved  brave,  by  his  perilous  deed, 
If  thou  wilst  not  abandon  thy  heart's  wild  desire, 
Let  these  knights  endeavor  to  shame  the  brave  squire." 

But  the  king  seized  the  goblet  and  quickly  again 

Hurled  it  down  in  the  furious  sea, 
"Noble  youth,   if  thou  bringest  the  goblet  thus  thrown, 

My  first,  and  my  brave  peerless  knight  shalt  thou  be, 
And  my  daughter  to-day  thou  shalt  have  for  thy  bride, 
Who  pleads  for  thee  meekly  with  tears  at  my  side." 

Then  a  might  seized  his  soul  that  was  terrible  now, 
And  a  strange  light  flashed  forth  from  his  eyes; 
He  sees  the  red  blush  on  that  beautiful  brow. 


156  BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


Und  sieht  sie  erbleichen  und  sinken  hin, 
Da  treibts'  ihn  kostlichen  Preis  zn  erwerben, 
Und  sturtzt  hinunter  auf  Leben  und  Sterben. 

Whol  hort  man  die  Brandung,   whol  kehrt  sie  zurick, 
Sie  verkundigt  der  donnernde  Schall; 

Da  buckt  sich  hinunter  mit  liebendem  Blick, 
Es  kommen,   es  kommen  die  Wasser  all, 

Sie  rauschen  herauf,  sie  rauschen  nieder, 

Den  Jungling  bringt  kines  wieder. 


MIGNON. 

, 

(AVSZUG   VON    "WILHELM    MEISTER "    EINER   DER    SCHONSTE    WERKE   VOX    GOTHE). 

KENNST  du  das  Land  wo  die  Citronen  bliihn, 
Im  dunkeln  Laub  die  Gold-Orangen  gliihn, 
Ein  saufter  Wind  vom  blauen  Himmel  went, 
Die  Myrthe  still  und  hoch  der  Lorbeer  steht. 
Kennst  du  es  wohl? 

Dahin!  Dahin! 
Mocht'  ich  mit  dir,   O  mein  Geliebter  ziehn. 

Kennst  du  das  Haus  ?     Auf  Saulen  ruht  sein  Dach, 
Es  glanzt  der  Saal,  es  schimmert  das  Gemach, 
Und  Marmorbilder  stehn  und  sehn  mich  an; 
Was  hat  man  dir,  du  armes  Kind  gethan? 
Kennest  du  es  wohl? 

Dahin!  Danin^ 
Micht'  ich  mit  dir,   O  mein  Beschiitzer,   ziehn, 


TRANSLATIONS.  157 


Convulsive  she  sobs  —  to  win  the  loved  prize, 
To  win,   or  to  perish,  by  hope  hurried  on, 
For  life,  or  for  death  —  a  plunge — he  is  gone. 

The  wild  waters  roll,  the  billows  still  break, 

And  resound  on  the  pebbly  shore, 
O'er  the  foam-crested  waves  lovers  lingering  look 

The  vortex  rolls  on  as  before; 

Currents  rush  to  the  surface  then  downwards  they  sweep, 
But  the  youth  never  comes  from  the  perilous  deep. 


MIGNON. 

Mignon  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  characters  in  Goethe's  works.  In  her  early 
childhood  she  had  Been  carried  away  from  her  home  in  Italy.  Wilhelm  Meister, 
seeing  her  abused,  became  her,  protector.  One  day  she  sang  a  sweet  song  of  her 
native  land,  and  after  finishing  she  stood  silent  a  moment,  then  looking  keenly  at 
Meister,  she  said,  "  Knowest  thou  that  land?  "  "  It  must  be  Italy,"  said  Meister. 
"Italy?"  said  Mignon,  with  an  earnest  air,  "  If  thou  goest  there,  take  me  with 
thee."  "  Hast  thou  been  there  already?"  said  Meister.  But  the  child  was  silent; 
nothing  more  could  be  got  out  of  her. 

KNOWEST  thou  the  land  where  citron  orchards  bloom, 
And  golden  oranges  hang  'midst  green  leaves'  gloom? 
There  gentle  breezes  'neath  the  azure  sky, 
O'er  silent  myrtles  waft  the  branches  high;       • 
Say,  dost  thou  know  it  ?     Thither,   O  thither, 
Might  I  with  thee,  O  my  beloved  one,  flee! 

| 

Knowest  thou  the  house?     Its  walls  on  pillars  rest, 

'   Bright  are  its  halls,   its  rooms  in  glittering  drest, 
There  marble  statues  stand  and  seem  to  me, 
To  ask,    "Poor  child,'  what  have  they  done  to  thee?" 
Say,  dost  thou  know  it?     Thither,   O  thither, 
Might  I  with  thee,   O  my  protedor,   flee! 


OF    LI*E. 


Kennst  du  den  Berg  und  seinen  Wolkensteg? 
Das  Maulthier  sucht  ins  Nebel  seinen  Weg, 
In  Hohlen  wohnt  der  Drachen  alte  Brut: 
Es  stiirtzt  der  Pels  und  iiber  ihn  die  Fluth. 
Kennst  du  es  wohl  ? 

Dahip!  Dahin! 
Geht  unser  Weg!  O  Vater  lass  uns  ziehn! 


DAS  SCHLOSS  BONCOURT. 

(EIN    LEID    VON    CHAMISSO). 

ICH  traum'  als  kind  mich  zuriicke, 
Und  schiittle  mein  greises  Haupt; 

Wie  sucht  ihr  mich  heim  ihr  Bildet, 
Die  lang  ich  vergessen  geglaubt? 


Hoch  ragt  aus  schatt'gen  Gehegen, 
Ein  schimmerndes  Schloss  hervor, 

Ich  kenne  die  Thiirme,  die  Zinnen, 
Die  steinerne  Briicke,  das  Thor. 


Es  schauen  vom  Wappenschild, 

Die  Lowen  so  traulich  mich  an, 

Ich  grusse  die.  alten  Bekanten 
Und  eile  den  Burghof  hinan. 


TRANSLATIONS.  159 


Knowcst  thou  those  crags  with  heavy  cloud-capped  load, 
Amidst  the  fogs  the -pack- mule  seeks  his  road; 
In  caverns  dwell  the  dragon's  ancient  brood, 
O'er  fallen  rocks  dashes  the  angry  flood.          » 

It  dost  thou  know  indeed?    Thither,   0  thither, 
We'll  take  our  way,   O  father,  let  us  flee! 


THE   CASTLE   OF   BONCOURT. 

(TRANSLATED  FROM  CHAMISSO). 

The  Chateau  de  Boncourt  in  Champagne,  was  the  old  family  residence  of  Cham- 
isso's  ancestors,  where  he  was  born  in  1781.  When  the  French  Revolution  broke 
out,  the  castle  was  assailed  and  razed  to  the  ground,  and  the  impoverished  family, 
which  ranked  among  the  first  of  France,  was  obliged  to  flee.  Chamisso  was  brought 
to  Germany  at  the  age  of  nine,  where  he  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life,  and 
attained  to  considerable  eminence  as  a  poet.  No  one  acquainted  with  the  history  of 
its  author  can  read  this  poem  without  being  touched  by  the  sweetness  and  beauty  of 
its  sentiments. 

I  DREAM  myself  back  into  childhood, 

And  shake  my  old  grey  head; 
How  ye  suddenly  seek  me,  ye  visions, 

That  I  long  thought  forgotten  and  dead. 


Out  rises  from  'midst  shady  gardens, 
A  glittering  castle  so  great, 

I  know  well  its  battlements,   towers, 

The  stream,  the  bridge  and  the  gate. 


The  lions  rude-carved  at  the  portal, 
Majestically  gaze  in  my  face; 

I  greet  the  old  friends  of  my  boyhood, 
And  speed  the  court-yard  space. 


160  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


Dort  Hegt  die  Sphinx  am  Brumen, 
Dort  grunt  der  Feigenbaum,  • , 

Dort  hinter  diesen  Fenstern 

Vertraumt  ich  den  ersten  Traum. 


Ich  tret'   in  die  Burgkapelle, 

Und  suche  des  Ahnhern  Grab, 

Dort  ist's,   dort  hangt  vom    Pfeiler, 
Das  alte  Gewaffen  herab. 


Noch  lesen  umflort  die  Augen, 
Die  Ziige  der  Inschrift  nicht; 

Wie  hell  durch  die  bunten  Scheiben, 
Das  Licht  dariiber  auch  bricht. 


So  stehst  du,  O  Schloss  meiner  Viiter, 
Mir  treu  und  fest  in  dem  Sinn, 

Und  bist  von  der  Erde  verschvvunden, 
Der  Pflug  geht  uber  dich  hin. 


Sei  fruchtbar  O  theurer  Boden, 

Ich  segne  dich  mild  und  geriihrt, 

Und  segn'   ihn  zwiefach  wer  immer, 
Den  Pflug  nun  liber  dich  fiikrt. 


Ich  aber  will  auf  mich  raffen, 

Mein  Saitenspiel  in  der  Hand, 

Die  Weiten-  der  Erde  durchschweifen, 
Und  singen  von  Land  zu  Land. 


TRANSLATIONS.  161 


There  lies  the  Sphinx  at  the  fountain, 
There  grows  the  fig-tree  green; 

Just  there  behind  those  windows 

Dreamed  I  my  boyhood's  first  dream. 


I  walk  in  the  aisles  of  the  chapel, 

And  search  for  my  ancestors'  graves; 

There  they  are,  and  there  from  the  pillars 
Hang  down  the  old  armor  and  glaives. 


Though  brilliant  through  painted  windows, 
Rainbow-like  gleams  the  sun's  light, 

Still  I  can  not  read  the  inscription 

For  tears  have  enveloped  my  sight. 


Thus  thou  standest,   O  castle,  my  fathers^ 
So  faithful  and  fast  in  my  mind 

Though  long  from  the  earth  thou  art   vanished, 
The  plough  leaves  no  vestige  behind. 


Be  fruitful,   dear  birth-place,   I  bless  thee, 
Though  anguish  o'ershadows'my  brow, 

And  doubly  I  bless  him  whoever 

Guides  over  thy  bosom  the  plow. 


But  I  will  rouse  me  and  journey, 

Like  a  minstrel  with  lyre  in  my  hand  — 

Through  the  wide,   wide  world  will  I  wander, 
Still  singing  from  land  to  land. 


i6a  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


THE   INDIAN'S   REVENGE. 

A  WILD  Indian  who  in  savage  freedom 

Liv'd,   nor  knew  the  white-man's  art  or  polish  — 

Free  of  guile  or  cunning  was  his  bosom, 

Heart  as  pure  as  God  to  him  had   given  — 

Brought  the  game  that  he  with  bow  and  sinew 

Far  in  northern  unfrequented  forests, 

In  the  chase  had  captured,   to  the  market; 

There,   without  the  arts  of  cunning  trader, 

He  the  game  of  mount  and  moorland  bartered, 

Taking,   trusting  what  the  white-man  offered. 

Joyful,   proudly,   with  his  hard-won  treasures, 

Hied  he  home  to  his  wild  forest  comrades, 

To  his  children  and  brown -featured  consort. 

But  while  distant  from  his  lowly  wigwam, 
Suddenly  a  storm  of  bleak  November 
Overtook  him;  poured  the  clouds  of  heaven, 
On  his  lengthened  locks  of  raven  blackness, 
And  the  coarse  and  untanned  deer-skin  garments, 
Clung  to  his  lean  form  dark-skinned  and  sinewy. 
Weary,   shivering  in  the  chilly  rain-storm, 
Sped  with  hasty  step  the  honest  savage, 
Towards  a  house  which  he  in  distance  noticed: 
"Sir,  permit  me  till  the  storm  is  over 
Rest  and  warm  me  in  your  friendly  shelter." 
Thus  addressing  the  proud  pale-faced  owner, 
"Get  thee  hence,  thou  misshaped,  dreaded  savage, 
Nor  return  thou;  let  me  see  thee  never." 
Thus  the  planter  roughly  spoke  in  anger, 
Seized  a  knotty  staff  to  fright  the  Indian. 

Sad*  the  Indian  as  he  went  reflective 
Brooding  o'er  the  white  man's  cruel  treatment, 


TRANSLATIONS.  163 


On  through  rain  and  gusts,  till  late  at  evening, 
Came  he  to  his  rude,   but  peaceful,   wigwam, 
And  to  his  own  brown-skinned  consort's  welcome; 
Wet  and  weary  couched  he  by  the  fireside, 
With  his  little,   dusky  offspring  'round  him. 
Then  he  told  them  tales  of  crowded  cities, 
Engines,  cannon  belching  forth  their  thunder, 
Of  the  wind  and  rain-storm  that  o'ertook  him, 
And  the  white  man's  harsh  and  cruel  treatment; 
Lovingly  they  bathed  his  brow  with  kisses, 
Clinging  to  him  with  child-like  caresses, 
Sought  to  dry  his  hair,  long,  black  and  dripping; 
Eagerly  their  father's  pouch  they  fumbled, 
Till  at  last  they  found  the  gifts  he  promised. 

Months  elapsed,  and  then  the  white  man  hunting 

In  the  woods,   he  lost  his  path  and  wandered  — 

Over  brakes  and  rocks,  thro'  streams  and  valleys, 

Many  steep  cliffs  climbed  with  footsteps  weary, 

Striving  still  to  find  again  the  pathway, 

That  from  out  this  wilderness  would  bring  him. 

Vain  his  wanderings,   vainer  still  his  calling, 

Naught  received  he  but  the  hollow  echo 

Rolling  through  the  canon's  rocky  ridges; 

Anxiously  he  toiled  in  doubt  and  darkness, 

Till  at  length/  at  foot  of  nearest  mountain, 

Saw  a  little,   feeble  camp-fire  flickering; 

Fright  and  joy  throbbed  in  his  breast  alternate, 

Taking  courage  he  approached  with  caution. 

"Who  comes  there?,"  with  fierce  and  warlike  accents. 

Cried  a  voice,   deep  in  the  mountain  cavern, 

And  a  warrior  stood  erecl  before  him; 

"Friend,   in  forest  long  have  I  been  wandering," 

Cried  with  trembling  voice  the  frightened  white  man, 

"Let  me  rest  here,  this  night,  for  I'm  weary, 

Guide  me  homeward  early  in  the  morning, 

And  to  thee  will  I  be  grateful  ever." 


164  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 

"Come  in,  welcome,"  answered  the  unknown  one, 

"Warm  thyself,   for  still  the  fire  is  burning." 

Strode  the  savage  to  a  gloomy  corner, 

Brought  forth  food  as  he  himself  had  eaten  — 

Parched  corn,   wild  nuts,   ham  of  bear  or  venison, 

To  appease  the  wandering  white  man's  hunger, 

Who  with  appetite  of  hunter  feasted, 

As  though  at  a  brother's  festive  table; 

Quietly  yet  gravely  sat  the  red  man 

Near  his  guest,  and  watched  the  white  man's  features. 

Who  with  hungry  teeth  the  food  divided, 

And  with  rapture  quaffed  the  fountain's  treasure, 

From  a  barken  vessel  rudely  fashioned. 

Then  on  couch  of  yielding  moss  and  rushes, 

Bear-skin  covered,  slept  the  pale-faced  hunter, 

Safely  slumbered  till  the  morning  sunshine. 

Like  the  desert-Arabs  wildest  war-chief, 
Fearful  then  with  knife  and  bow  and  quiver, 
Stood  the  Indian  by  his  guest  fast  slumbering, 
Woke  him,  and  the  frightened  white  man  starting, 
Quickly  reached  to  grasp  his  trusty  weapons; 
But  a  dish  to  him  the  Indian  proffered, 
Brimming  over  with  a  food  nutritious; 
Thus  he  smiling  the  white  hunter  nourished. 
Then  he  brought  him  far  through  many  windings, 
Over  brakes  and  rocks,  through  brooks  and  valleys, 
Ways  untrodden  till  they  reached  the  highway, 
Bowed  with  thanks  to  him » the  pale-faced  hunter, 
But  the  savage  stood  and  darkly  frowning, 
Gazed  with  eagle  eye  upon  the  stranger, 
Spoke  with  voice  both  full  and  firm  and  earnest, 
' '  Haply  ere  this  we  have  met  each  other  ? ' ' 

As  by  palsy  stricken  stood  the  hunter, 
In  his  host  and  guide  now  recognizing  . 


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TRANSLATIONS.  167 


Whom  he  in  the  storm-wind  forth  had  driven, 
Dashed,  confused,  he  stammered  forth  excuses, 
But  the  savage,  calmly  smiling,  answered — 
"Tell  your  prudent,  wise  and  crafty  people 
*  That  we  savages  have  more  of  feeling;" 
Thus  he  spake  and  vanished  in  the  forest. 


OTHER    POEMS. 


WYNONA. 

Lake  Pcpin  is  a  widening"  of  the  Mississippi  River.  It  is  about  twenty  miles  in 
"length  and  from  two  to  six  miles  in  breadth.  Near  the  south  end  of  the  lake  is  a 
high  bluff  called  Maiden's  Rock,  the  top  of  which  seems  to  hang  over  towards  the 
water.  The  Indians  pretend  to  fix  a  date  to  the  incidents  narrated  in  this  legend. 
They  say  it  occurred  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  snows  ago.  They  are  offended  if 
you  suggest  the  possibility  of  its  being  a  ficlion.  I  wish  I  could  throw  into  the  story 
the  feeling  and  energy  of  the  Indians  who  related  it  to  me  while  teaching  school 
among  them. 

IN  the  bright  v/est  where  fades  the  lingering-  light, 
Whence  the  last  beams  of  sunset  take  their  flight, 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride, 
And  fairer  streams  than  famed  Hydaspes  glide; 
Ere  the  bright  waters  of  this  western  world 
Were  ever  by  a  bark  or  vessel  curled, 
Saving  the  ripple  of  the  light   canoe; 
Above  there  floated  the  ethereal  blue, 
There  stood  in  beauty  the  unchanging  hills, 
And  grassy  meadows  fed  by  numerous  rills, 
Were  all  the  Indians — he  alone  could  tell 
The  worth  and  beauty  of  each  lovely  dell.. 
And  ere  the  pale-face  wandered  here,  he  dwelt 
In  savage  freedom,  many  a  joy  he  felt; 
Here  home  returning  with  a  steadier  pace, 
From  bloody  war-path  or  from  glorious  chase, 
He  laid  him  down  and  basked  him  in  the  sun, 
Or  told  in  glowing  terms  what  he  had  done, 
Mayhap  returning  with  a  captured  deer, 
His  swarthy  children  gave  a  thrilling  cheer, 


'OTHER  POEMS.  169 


Though  dark,   untutored,  he  had  Etill  an  eye 
For  Nature's  beauties,  and  could  there  descry, 
On  Nature's  page,  a  trace  of  that  great  Cause 
Who  made  and  rules  the  universe  by  laws; 
Could  gaze  in  twilight  on  the  glowing  west, 
And  vividly  describe  a  land  of  rest, 
Where  fruits  autumnal,  flowers  perennial  grow, 
And  hushed  forever  every  wail  of  \voe* 

Amidst  the  records  ol  those  days  past  long. 

None  seem  more  tragic  or  more  fit  for  song 

Than  those  connected  with  those  rocks  and  hills> 

Those  far-spread  prairies,  or  those  murmuring  rills; 

Land  of  wild  beauty,  land  of  light  and  shade, 

Here  dwelt  Wynona,  the  fair  Indian  maid. 

And  youth  and  spring-time  threw  their  golden  ray. 

Of  gay  romance  o'er  every  changing  day, 

Nor  dwelt  she  there  alone,  for  there  was  one, 

The  subjecl  of  her  day-dreams,  was  he  gone? 

Life's  fairest  beauties  seemed  as  shadows  dim, 

For  her  young  life's  best  hopes  were  linked  with  him. 

Chaska,  the  warrior,  whose  dark  eyes  shone  bright, 

Like  northern  stars  in  vault  'of  wmtry  night, 

From  him  Wynona  soon  was  doomed  to  part, 

Through  love's  warm  eddies  circled  round  her  heart, 

As  the  bright  rays  of  sunset  take  their  flight, 

Leaving  the  scene  in  chilliness  and  night; 

So  disappointment  spread  his  gloomy  form* 

And  the  clouds  lowered  in  the  gathering  storm 

O'er  her  young  life.     And  is  life  what  it  seems? 

Death  chose  the  objecl;  of  her  fondest  dreams, 

For  they  who  never  yet  o'er  loved  ones  wept, 

Whose  brightest  hopes  have  never  yet  been  swept, 

Like  the  pure  white  cloud  from  the  summer  sky, 

Like  rose  leaves  scattered  by  tempest  high, 

They  cannot  tell  of  the  dark,  dark*  night, 

That  settles  and  lowers  at  the  heart's  first  blight. 


BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


Wynona,   pensive,  viewed  his  bow  and  spear, 

And  the  huge  antlers  of  the  captured  deer, 

Which  he  had  killed;  and  e'en  the  knife, 

Which  he  had  used  in  robbing  them  of  life, 

Seemed  to  recall  wild  scenes  and  happy  hours, 

And  then  adown  her  dark  cheeks  rolled  like  showers, 

The  burning  tears.     Yet  she  in.  dreams  oft  saw, 

A  brighter  scene  than  mortal  pen  can  draw, 

A  fair  Elysian  in  far  western  isles, 

Where  skies  are  bright  and  spring  eternal  smiles. 

But  more  than  this,   she  saw  her  Chaska  there, 

Dwelling  securely  in  that  realm  so  fair. 

And  sweet  to  her  seemed  his  wild  warrior-song — 

He  seemed  to  wonder  that  she  tarried  long 

In  this  cold  region,   while  he  happy  dwelt, 

In  that  bright,  western  country,  and  ne'er  felt 

The  pain,   and  anguish,   and  the  toil,   and  strife, 

And  all  the  sorrows  incident  to  life, 

That  here  are  felt  in  this  strange  world  of  ours; 

And  asked  her  why  not  stay  in  those  bright  bowers, 

And  range  with  him  the  hills,  the  vales,   the  plain, 

Where  flowers  of  spring,   and  fruits  of  autumn  reign. 

Where  youth  and  ^auty  ne'er  shall  know  decay, 

Where  life  and  light  and  love  ne'er  pass  away. 

He  also  told  her  of  the  hunting  ground, 

Where  deer  and  antelope  through  valleys  bound, 

And  how,  when  willing,   they  could  sail  away, 

Like  summer  clouds  and  he,  as  swift  as  they. 

And  oft  at  evening's  hour,  when  Sol  was  setting, 

She'd  spend  an  hour,   half  musing,   half  regretting, 

Yet  scarce  could  wish  that  he  was  back  again, 

From  that  bright  region  to  this  world  of  pain, 

But  rather  wished  life's  fitful  fever  over, 

That  she  might  meet  again  her  Indian  lover. 

Harka,   the  messenger,  whose  words  brought  blight 
To  fair  Wynona' s  prospecls,   took  delight 


OTHER   POEMS. 


In  frequent  boastings  of  bis  good  success, 
And  hoped  to  win  her  by  his  fair  address; 
For  to  her  parents  he. had  told  his  passion, 
And  bargained  for  her  in  the  Indian  fashion, 
And  they  consented,   too;  we  need  not  wonder, 
For  he  was  reckoned  the  best  Indian  hunter 
Of  all  the  chief's  sons,  or  in  any  station, 
In  all  the  ton-wans*  of  Dacotah's  nation. 
What  though  he  proffered  gifts  —  'twas  little  use: 
Can  gifts  make  lovely  what  we  never  choose? 
Though  parents  urged,  she  could  not  feel  delight 
Nor  comfort  in  his  words.     'Twas  sorrow's  night; 
Sweet  Hope  was  hidden  by  the  howling  storm, 
As  when  the  Thunder-bird  f  reveals  his  form, 
The  gloomy  plumage  of  his  raven  crest, 
And  the  forked  lightning  issuing  from  his  breast. 
Wynona  found,   as  all  the  world  will  prove, 
That  heart  scarce  human  that  does  never  love; 
Falsehoods  most  base,   may  wrong  the  good  and  pure, 
And  youth  may  linger  where  temptations  lure, 
May  list  too  long  to  love's' sweet  flatteries- 
Linger  too  long  where  passions  torrents  rise. 

Where  the  bold  bluffs  of  Mississippi  stand, 

By  grand  old  forests  crowned  on  either  hand, 

Northward,   the  lake  of  Pepin  rolls  its  waves; 

Or  moved  by  summer  south-wind,  gently  laves 

Its  heaving  bosom  on  the  rocky  shore, 

Then  with  a  sigh  its  ripples  break  and  are  no  more. 

'Twas  .yellow  autumn,  seven  moons  had  been 

Since  first  the  woodland  bowers  were  clothed  in  green, 

Since  first  the  spring  birds  woke  their  joyous  note; 

But  now  the  north-wind  ofttimes  roughly  smote, 

And  with  a  sad,  and  melancholy  sound, 

Swept  thro'  the  groves  and  o'er  the  withered  ground, 

*  Villages. 

|  The  Dacotahs  believe  storms  are  caused  by  a  huge  bird  flying  through  the  air. 


BALLADS  OF"  LIFE", 


And  the  leaves,  too,  that  looked  so  dark  and  green 
Had  changed  their  color  to  a  sombre  sheen; 
Bitten  by  frosts,  they  v  fell  as  falls  the  hart, 
Or  wounded  songster  smitten  by  the  dart.  * 

Wynona  had  a  foe;  Harpstenah's  smile 
Seemed  Chaska's  changeful  nature  to  beguile  — 
Seemed  like  a  dark  cloud  in  the  horizon 
Destined  to  shadow  the  bright,   morning  sun; 
Harka  had  promised,  would  he  now  betray, 
With  falsehood  cloud  Wynona'  s  life-long  day, 
O'er  her  fair  future  throw  the  slanderer's  pall, 
And  with  life's  bilter  wormwood  mingle  gall, 
Whose  harshest  tone  was  Indian  maiden's  song, 
Whose  greatest  error  that  she  loved  too  long  ? 
'Twas  so;  that  piclure  fair  had  met  tfoe  gaze 
Of  sullen  envy,   'tis  from  her  we  trace 
Many  the  sorrows  and  the  ills  of  life, 
Many  the  scene  of  tumult  and  of  strife; 
Wynona  felt  ingratitude's  cold  blast, 
Scorn's  biting  frost,  and  hate's  fierce  hail  fall  fast. 
Ah!  yes,  the  heart  can  suffer,   but  not  all—  - 
Too  strongly  mixed  the  wormwood  and  the  gall, 
The  heart  strings  wither  and  the  spirit  dies  — 
Dies  for  an  object  which  but  few  can  prize, 
A  shrine  to  worship,   an  ideal  to  love, 
A  sacred  circle  where  the  heart  may  move,  . 

Nor  feel  that  its  deep  secrets  are  unrolled  — 
To  the  stern  gaze  of  an  unfeeling  world. 

A  group  of  Indian  girls  sat  on  the  ground, 
Harpstenah's  merry  laughing  echoed  round 
The  circle,  and  their  joyous  hearts  respond, 
As  they  by  turns  in  glowing  terms  tell  of 
Scenes  of  wild  romance  and  of  Indian  love, 
Enamored  lovers  and  of  maidens  fond, 
The  mysterious  legend  and  the  magic  wand; 


'OTHER    POEMS.  173 


And  there  continued  till  the  shades  of  night 

Spread  o'er  the  landscape,  and  the  moon's  pale  light 

Looked  down  serenely  on  that  youthful  group, 

Full  of  high  promise  and  of  ardent  hope. 

In  five  days  more  the  warriors  would  depart 

For  a  wild  buffalo  chase.     But,   ere  they  start, 

The  dance  of  Ha-o-kah  must  be  performed,' 

That  to  their  teepees  they  return  unharmed; 

That  they  may  prosper  in  the  unequal  war 

And  bring  back  trophies  or  the  glorious  scar. 

'Tis  eventide,  the  pale  moon  rises  clear 

O'er  the  cold  waters,  and  the  prairies  wear 

A  silvery  brightness,   as  the  sun's  bright  beams 

Fade  in  the  distant  horizon;  or  the  fond  dreams 

Of  childhood  fade.     Thoughts  of  the  past, 

And  the  bright  dreams  of  future  doomed  to  blast, 

Crowd  on  hope's  vision;  for  they  little  think 

That  they  are  walking  near  the  tottering  brink 

Of  ruined  hopes,  of  dark  dismay  and  shame. 

Is  there  a  purer  bliss  we  mortals  claim 

Than  a  slow  walk,   in  the  calm  vesper  time, 

O'er  the  wide  prairies,  listening  to  the  chime 

Of  lovely  cascade?     Thus  did  Nature's  child, 

The  young  Wynona,   roam,   hearing  the  wild 

Yet  soothing  cadence  of  the  legend  song 

That  Harka's  voice,  with  its  wild  freedom,  sung. 

Thus  Harka  wooed,  while  sunset's  lingering  ray 

Threw  its  soft  radience  o'er  expiring  day, 

Telling  her  fondly  that  her  soft  dark  eyes 

Were  lovelier  far  than  autumn's  brightest  dyes; 

That  sweet  her  voice,  like  song  of  nightingale, 

Or  when  'twas  saddened  as  the  lone  dove's  wail 

For  its  lost  mate;   "Doth  not  the  dark  deep  stream," 

Continued  he,    "sparkling  in  morning's  beam, 

Reflect  your  form,  and  tell  that  you  are  fair 

As  the  pure  prairie  flowers  in  April  air  ?  " 


174 


BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


Thus  did  she  listen  to  his  words  the  while 
Wondering  that  she  had  ever  feared  that  guile 
Dwelt  in  that  breast.    The  lovely  stars  shone  bright 
In  the  deep  vault  of  heaven;  and  the  light 
Of  the  pale,  waning  moon,  so  clear  and  cold, 
Shone  on  the  ripples  as  they  gently  rolled  — 
For  chill  November  winds  swept  o'er  the  lake, 
Wafting  each  wave  till  it  would  gently  break,. 
With  soft,  sweet  murmur  on  the  pebbly  shore. 
Thus  spent  Wynona  that  bright  eve,   for  o'er 
The  saddened  future  was  a  curtain  thrown, 
Nor  were  the  events  of  the  next  day  known, 
Save  to  the  eye  of  Him  who  views  the  heart, 
Knows  all  its  sorrows,  even  its  keenest  smart. 

The  morning  came  but  not  with  sunshine  gay;— 
Dark  autumn  clouds  had  hid  the  sky  with  gray;. 
Those  dread  precursors  of  an  autumn  storm 
Scud  swiftly  onward  in  their  gloomy  form. 
Early  in  morn  the  treacherous  Harka  went 
From  his  own  teepee  to  Harpstenah's  tent, 
Declared  his  love  with  fervent,   earnest  vow;: 
Harpstenah  answered  she  was  happy  now. 

Then  Harka  told  her,  that  her  cheery  voice 
Would  influence  even  the  stoic  warrior's  choice; 
Was  music  sweeter  than  the  wild  bird's  tone, 
Said  that  his  teepee  without  her  was  lone. 
Harpstenah  listened,   now  at  length  she  laid 
Her  small  hand  on  his  arm,   and  thus  she  said: 
' "  I  hear  your  words,  now  prove  that  they  are  true  - 
As  you  will  love  me,  so  will  I  love  you; 
But  there's  Wynona,  you  have  vowed  to  her, 
While  she  repaid  you  with  the  bitter  sneer. 
Remember  her,  who,   changeful  as  the  wave, 
Coldly  refused  and  scorned  a  warrior  brave. 


OTHER    POEMS.  175 


Wert  thou  not  shamed  when  on  her  lip  the  scorn, 
The  cold  and  withering  scorn,  was  proudly  worn? 
Dost  thbu  not  know  ere  sunset  gilds  the  west 
Dacotah  maidens  keep  the  Virgin's  Feast?     . 
That  Feast  for  virgins  only  is  prepared, 
Nor  should  it  be  by  any  others  shared; 
Th^n  why  not  tell  her  that  she  is  not  pure ! 
Dost  thou  not  kno.w  that  she  would  fain  endure 
Death  before  that  ? ' '     And  was  it  really  so  ? 
Nay,  she  was  pure  as  the  untrodden  snow. 

The  tempter's  words  sound  sweetly  in  his  ear, 

Revenge  and  hatred  in  his  heart  appear; 

The  Feast  prepares,   the  maidens  now  advance 

To  join  in  concert  in  the  sacred  dance. 

The  warriors  come,  and  Harka  with  the  rest, 

Hatred  and  jealousy  within  his  breast, 

Stalking  toward  the  ring,  he  calls  aloud, 

While  hushed  to  stillness  is  the  murmuring  crowd: 

<lTake  hence  Wynona;  shall  she  be  a  guest? 

She  is  unworthy  of  the  Virgin's  Feast!'/ 

The  pale,   unhappy  girl  with  glaring  eyes 

Gazes  upon  him,  but  no  word  replies, 

Bows  down  her  head,  departs  with  many  a  frown  — 

As  night  comes  on  when  the  bright  sun  goes  down. 

To  whom  shall  she  now  turn,  whom  ask  for  aid, 

Where  wander  now,   forsaken  and  dismayed? 

Unto  her  brother  shall  she  now  advance? 

His  dark  deep  eye  reveals  the  angry  glance, 

Yet  feeling  still  a  woman's  spirit  strong, 

A  quenchless  hope  that  lifts  from  mortal  wrong, 

Death  has  no  terrors,  life  no  charms  for  her; 

No  wonder  then  that  she  should  death  prefer, 

Throw-  off  the  mortal  coil  that  bound  her  here, 

And  soar  in  freedom  to  a  brighter  sphere. 


176  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


Her  firm,  her  last  resolve  is  quickly  made, 
And  she  in  bridal  robes  is  soon  arrayed. 

Across  the  river  frowned  a  rock-cliff  bold, 
Like  to  a  castellated  tower  of  old; 
Four  hundred  feet  it  rises  from  the  shore  — 
Its  perpendicular  height  ten  scores  or  more; 
Around  its  dark  base  breaks  Lake  Pepin's  surge, 
And  on  its  summit  sounds  the  maiden's  dirge; 
Upward  she  clambered  o'er  the  rugged  rocks  — 
The  autumn  wind  with  fitful  moaning  mocks  — 
Careless  and  unconcerned  she  stands  alone, 
Hope  of  a  better  life  propels  her  on. 
Wildly  she  casts  her  raven  locks  behind, 
Her  long  dark  tresses  streaming  in  the  wind, 
Nor  from  those  dark  eyes  are  there  angry  flashes, 
Nor  does  a  tear  drop  steal  between  the  lashes. 
She  calmly  speaks  of  a  bright  western  shore 
Where  sorrow,  death  and  envy  are  no  more. 

"Last  night,"  said  she,    "in  sleep  I  viewed  the  moon, 

Sat  on  the  beach  and  saw  her  light  go  down, 

And  then  the  spirit  of  the  waters  rose 

Calmly,  and  silent  as  the  current  flows. 

'Wynona,'  said  the  spirit,  her  voice  did  fill 

The  valley  wide,  and  the  cold  waves  were  still, 

That  I  might  hear.     And  then  she  told  of  death, 

And  of  a  country  where  no  winter's  breath 

Chills  the  bright  waters.      '  Fair  indeed,  are  the 

Dacotah  lands,  but  fairer  far,'  said  she, 

'  Are  those  bright  islands  in  the  western  seas, 

For  green  forever  are  the  forest  trees — - 

To  that  fair  land,'  said  she,    'thou  soon  shalt  go, 

Father  of  waters  onward  still  may  flow, 

But  lovelier  plains  and  hills  and  streams  thou' It  view, 

In  that  fair  clime  where  every  heart  is  true.' 


OTHER    POEMS.  179 


And  now  I  leave  you;  I  have  done  no  wrong, 
Save  that  I've  trusted  and  have  hoped  too  long." 
The  warriors  hear  her,  for  her  voice  so  clear 
Resounds  far  down  the  vale;  and  pale  with  fear, 
The  warriors  listen  to  the  mournful  dirge, 
Theri  rush  to  snatch  her  from  the  fatal  verge, 
Swiftly  they  urge  their  way,  but  'tis  too  late, 
She  having  finished  gives  herself  to  fate  — 
Smiles  at  each  beckon,  scorns  the  arms  they  reach, 
Then  headlong  plunges  to  the  rocky  beach. 

That  scene  is  closed,  that  young  yet  throbbing  breast, 
With  all  its  pangs  and  passions  is  at  rest. 
Shall  we  condemn  her?  she  who  never  knew 
That  God  hath  said,   no  murder  shalt  thou  do? 
Unknown  to  her  the  power  of  faith  and  prayer, 
She  sought  a  rest  where  kindred  spirits  are- 
Proud  and  majestic  frown  those  dark,  gray  steeps, 
And  often,  still,  the  Indian  maiden  weeps, 
As  silently  she  floats  those  rocks  between, 
In  her  frail  bark;  for  sacred  is  the  green 
Where  fell  Wynona;  and  the  very  spot 
Is  pointed  out,  where  closed  her  earthly  lot; 
Spirits,   they  think,  are  hovering  near  the  scene, 
And  superstition  throws  a  sombre  sheen, 
On  eyery  object  as  the  moon's  pale  wake, 
Throws  a  sweet  mystery  o'er  the  sleeping  lake. 
Here  the  Dacotah  checks  his  wild  voice  shrill, 
And  calmly  pointing  to  that  towering  hill, 
Fancies  he  views  her  on  the  summit  there, 
As  she  her  arms  throws  wildly  in  the  air  — 
Sees  her  dark  tresses  floating  unconfined, 
.  And  hears  her  wild  dirge  in  the  passing  wind. 

MINNEHAHA,   November  9,    1861. 


i8o  BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


HERO   AND    LEANDER. 

A    LEGEND    OF   ANCIENT   TIMES. 

Leander  was  a  youth  of  Abydos,  a  town  on  the  Asiatic  side  of  the  Bosphorous. 
On  the  opposite  European  shore,  in  the  town  of  Sestos,  lived  the  maiden  Hero,  a 
priestess  of  Venus.  Leander  loved  her  and  used  frequently  to  swim  the  strait  to- 
enjoy  her  company.  In  dark  nights  she  held  a  torch  to  dlreci  him;  but  one  night  a 
tempest  arose,  his  strength  failed)  and  he  was  drowned.  The  waves  bore  his  body 
to  the  European  shore,  which,  when  Hero  saw,  she  in  her  despair  cast  herself  into 
the  sea  and  perished. 

SEE  ye  there  the  old  steeps  gray? 
Castle-like  they  each  survey, 

There  the  golden-  sunshine  dwells, 
There  the  Hellespontus  sweeps 
Impetuous  through  the  rocky  steeps 

Of  the  rock-bound  Dardanelles; 
See  ye  not  the  breakers  rear, 

Dashing  on  the  rocky  shore  ? 
Asia  they  from  Europe  tear, 

Yet  love  braved  their  angry  roar. 

Moved  by  Cupid's  venomed  arrow, 
Leander,   Hero,  feel  love's  sorrow-— 

Doomed  to  Cupid's  god-like  power; 
Boldly  o'er  the  mountains  wild, 
Hunter  keen,   Leander  toiled; 

Hero  bloomed  earth's  fairest  flower, 
But  the  hearts  of  this  "fond  pair 

By  their  cruel  sires  were  wrung, 
And  the  ambrosial  fruits  of  love 

As  aye,  o'er  awful  perils  hung. 

'.  % 

On  the  crags  of  ancient  Sestos, 
Where  with  wave's  eternal  echoes 
Dash  the  Hellespcxitine  swells, 


OTHER   POEMS. 


The  maiden  sits;  with  loving  gaze, 
Abydos'  distant  shore  surveys, 

Where  her  loved  Leander  dwells. 
Sestos'  and  Abydos'  strand 

By  no  bridge's  arch  is  bound  — 
No  bark  sails  from  that  wild  shore; 

Lover's  art  a  passage  found. 

O'er  that  dark  and  billowy  way, 
Love's  torch  lights  him  with  its  ray  — 

Guides  Leander,  hopeful,  brave, 
When  the  dying  daylight's  glimmer 
Fades  in  west;  then  springs  the  swimmer 

In  the  'Pontus'  gloomy  wave, 
Stems  the  wave  with  vigorous  arm, 

Aiming  for  the  distant  strand, 
Where  on  high  illumined  cliff, 

Waves  love's  torch's  flaming  brand. 

Then,  by  love's  contentment  blest, 
For  a  time  the  lovers  rest, 

From  the  dangers  of  the  wave; 
Hero  then  his  brow  will  press 
With  that  fervent  holy  kiss, 

Such  as  love  e'er  gives  the  brave, 
Till  the  dawning  of  the  morn 

Rouse  them  from  delightsome  dream - 
Drive  him  from  their  dear  retreat 

Back  to  ocean's  chilly  stream. 

Spring  and  summer  onward  march 
Successively  through  heaven's  arch, 

But  these  happy  ones  ne'er  saw 
Autumn's  changing  verdure  fall; 
And  from  icy  polar  hall 

Earth  her  wintry  piantle  draw. 


i82  BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


Joyfully  they  saw  the  days 

Ever  short  and  shorter  grow — 

Thanks  for  lengthened  nights  of  joy 
Ever  fondly  they  bestow.' 

Hero  viewed  the  lovely  ocean 
Then  she  spake  with  sweet  emotion, 

"•Neptune,  ruler  of  the  sea, 
Lovely  god,  can'st  thou  deceive? 
No!     the  wretch  I'll  ne'er  believe; 

Thou  wert  ever  true  to  me  — 
Oft  may  mankind  prove  untrue; 

Cruel  is  a  father's  heart, 
Ever  kind  and  gentle  thou; 

Hast  thou  felt  the  lover's  smart? 

"On  this  barren,  storm-beat  rock, 
I  would  ever  lonely  walk, 

And  in  endless  sorrow  pine, 
But  thou  bring' st  upon  thy  wave 
Without  boat  or  bridge,  the  brave 

To  my  arms,  across  the  brine. 
Full  of  horrors  are  thy  depths, 

Terrible  thy  billowy  flood, 
.But  when  love  implores  thy  grace, 

Leander's  courage  thee  subdued." 


Night  has  come,   the  billows  grow 
Dreary,   dark;  her  torch's  glow 

Holds  she  as  a  beacon  ray, 
Hoping  that  'midst  clouds  and  wind 
He  shall  see  the  beacon  kind, 

She  had  placed  to  light  the  way, 
^Cheery  as  the  evening  star. 


•OTHER   PCTCMS. 


Dark  the  sea;  the  storm  gusts  whirl, 
Deepest  midnight  shades  unfurl; 

Stars  and  moon  extinguished  are. 

Night,  her  mantle  stretches  far, 
;Furious  the  torrents  pour 

From  the  cavernous  gloomy  clouds, 
Lightnings  flash  amidst  the  gloom, 
'Loud  is  heard  the  thunder  boom, 

And  the  monster  tempest  crowds 
TJown  this  dark  tempestuous  gulf. 

Mighty  chasms  foam  and  hiss, 
'Billows  rise  like  mountains  high, 

Then  they  sink  to  vast  abyss, 

•Hero  now  to  Neptune  bows, 
Fervently  repeats  her  vows, 

Proffers  all  that  she  can  give 
To  the  storm-god  grim,  severe  — 
Szicrifices  rich  and  dear, 

If  Leander  only  live. 
Angry,  he  refuses-  all; 

Winds  extinguish  torch,  no  trace 
Guides  the  swimmer,  dark  the  pall, 

Brooding  o'er  the  landing  place. 

Faithless  Hellespont's  still  form 
Was  the  lull  before  the  storm; 

Thou  wast  like  a  mirror  bright, 
Then  the  lover  thee  believed, 
By  thy  falseness  was  deceived, 

In  the  midst  the  stormy  night 
Threw  its  veil  across  his  path; 

Vain  he  stems  the  midway  stream, 
Storms  upon  him  wreak  their  wrath, 

O'er  him  Furies  madly  scream. 


i36  BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


Ah!  the  perils  of  the  deep, 
Ventured  more  as  oft  escaped. 

'Twas  the  mighty  god's  decree  — 
At  love's  parting  plighted  troth, 
Holy  love  had  bound  them  both. 

Naught  but  death  could  set  him  free, 
In  the  midnight's  darkest  hour, 

'Round  him  rages  tempest  wild, 
Now  Leander  feels  their  power, 

Though  he's  ocean's  favored  child. 


Now  the  wild  winds  all  are  still, 
Clear  upon  the  eastern 'hill 

Sun's  swift  horses  mount  and  flee. 
Peaceful  through  the  vale  below, 
Hellespont  now  calm  can  flow, 

Smiling  both  the  land  and  sea,, 
Gently  now  the  ripples  lave 

Softly  on  the  rocky  shore, 
Glittering,   playing  thus  the  wave 

Wafts  a  corpse  upon  the  shore. 


Yes,  'tis  he,  but  life  is  gone, 
Holy  kept  the  vow  he'd  given, 

Quickest  glance,  she  knows  'tis  he.. 
Still  is  heard  no  murmuring  sound, 
Not  a  tear-drop  meets  the  ground, 

Calm,  she  gazes  on  the  sea, 
Fixed  upon  the  waves  her  glance, 

Courage  lights  a  sacred  glow 
Fairer  than  the  evening  tints, 

Noble  as  an  angel's  brow. 


OTHER    POEMS.  i«7 


Clad  in  priestess  flowing  white, 
Plunged  she  from  the  rocky  height, 

In  the  dark  and  chilly  wave; 
Then  the  sea-weed  was  her  pillow, 
And  the  ever-rolling  billow 

Was  the  holy  corpse's  grave; 
'Pontus  content  with  his  spoil, 

Joyfully  now  rolls,  and  throws, 
From  his  unexhausted  fount, 

That  sweeping  flood  that  ever  flows. 


HOPE. 

HOPE!  thou  art  man's  surest  friend,  and 
They  who  cling  to  th%e  will  find  the 
Ills  of  life  like  clouds  upon  a 
Summer  sky,   which  quickly  pass,  and 
Leave  the  heavens  clear. 

One -lesson 

I  have  learned,  in  life,  whate'er  my 
Fate,  to  be  content  and  wait;  no 
Night  so  long  but  day  did  come;  no- 
Storm  so  wild  but  rested  in  a 
Calm.     Each  day  is  fraught  with  lessons 
Of  true  philosophy  that  pass 
Unheeded  by,  which,  turned  to  good 
Account,  would  lessen  sorrow,  smooth. 
The  rugged  path  of  life.     But  how 
Frail  is  man!  how  feeble,  too;  like 
The  caged  bird  he  frets  away  a 
Few  brief  years,  then,   sullen,  sinks- 
Into  the  grave:  that  mighty 


1,88  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


Leveler  of  mortal  grandeur. 
Where  the  worm  alike  revels  on 
The  proud  and  the  inglorious 
Clay;  impanneled  in  death's  dark  vault, 
Distinctions  cease,  and  chaos  leaves 
No  trace  of  him  who  sat  upon 
A  throne,   or  him  who,   clothed  in 
Garments  vile,  begged  the  poor  pittance 
Of  his  'daily  bread.     Poor,  toilworn 
Man,   racked  with  cares  innumerable, 
Yet  oft  imaginary;  struggling 
AVith  contending  passions;  battling 
'Gainst  an  unknown  fate,  with  weapons 
All  unseen,   hurrying  thee  on  to 
Certain  death — is  this  thy  end? 


%  And 

After  all,  what  is  life?     Each  day 
Is  a  page  of  promise,  the  whole 
A  volumn  of  disappointments;  , 

And  yet,  if  rightly  understood, 
'Tis  a  pleasing  narrative;  a 
Lesson  for  eternity;  a 
Prelude  to  that  mighty  unknown 
World  beyond.     And  the  grave  is  heaven's 
Vestibule,  from  whence,   clothed  in 
Perfection's  garb,   the  soul  rises 
To  mingle  with  immortal  things. 
This  is  life's  sweetest  hope,  with  which 
No  man  is  poor,  and  he  who  has 
It  not,    is  like  the  helmless  bark 
Upon  the  ocean  —  the  sport  of 
Every  fickle  wave' — his  soul  is 
Bankrupt,  for  he  is  poor,  is  poor 
Indeed  who  has  no  hope,  and  sees 
No  light  or  life  beyond  the  grave. 


OTHER    POEMS.  189 


JUDAS. 

IN  Time's  most  memorable  tragedy, 
Judas,  a  prominent  figure,  ever  stands; 
While  earth  shall  roll  he  cannot  be  forgot. 
What  was  his  sin  ?     Was  he  a  traitor  vile, 
Or  did  he  wish  to  aggrandize  his  Lord, 
And  herald  in  Messiah's  peaceful  reign? 
Let  us  review  the  fa6ls  of  Holy  Writ, 
Nor  stigmatize  because  it  is  the  rule. 

'Tis  said  of  Judas,  he  was  frank  and  bold  — 

Almost  to  rashness  bold,  yet  sensitive; 

Who  took  his  dreams  for  firm  realities; 

Who,   once  believing,  all  in  all  believed; 

Rushing  at  obstacles  and  scorning  risk, 

Ready  to  venture  all  to  gain  his  end. 

No  compromise  or  subterfuge  for  him  — 

His  thoughts  went  from  his  brain  straight  to  the  a6l: 

Yet  with  this  ardent  and  impatient  mood, 

Was  joined  a  visionary  mind,  that  took 

Impressions  quick  and  fine,   yet  deep  as  life. 

Therefore  it  was  that  in  this  subtle  soil, 

The  Master's  words  took  root,  and  grew,  and  flowered. 

He  heard  and  followed  and  obeyed;  his  faith 

Was  serious,  earnest,  real — of  the  crowd, 

Judas,   it  seems,  believed  he  was  the  Lord, 

The  true  Messiah  of  the  Jews:  would  he 

Betray  his  Master  for  a  bribe?     He  who 

Was  brave  when  all  the  rest  had  fled  away? 

Brave  to  return  'midst  foes  the  paltry  bribe, 

Confess  hisvsin,  declare  Christ's  innocence! 

He  doubted  not  like  some  who  walked  with  him, 
Desired  no  first  place,  as  did  James  and  John, 


J9o  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


Denied  Him  not  with  Peter,  not  to   him, 

His  Master  said,    "Away!  thou'rt  an   offence; 

Get  thee  behind  me  Satan," — "Am  I 

So  long  time  with  ye  and  ye  know  me  not?" 

Calm,   unambitious,   nor  moved  by  desire 

To  gain  a  post  of  honor  when  his  Lord 

Should  come  to  rule;    chosen  from  out  the  midst 

Of  scores  of  men  as  his  apostle, —  then 

Again  selected  to  a  place  of  trust  — 

Unselfish,  honest,  he  among  them  walked, 

Haply  translators  since  have  dubbed  him  thief. 

Why  call  him  villain  who  for  greed  of  gain 

For  thirty  silver  pieces  sold  his  Lord  ? 

Does  not  the  bribe  seem  all  too  small  and  mean?' 

He  held  the  common  purse,  and  had  he  wished. 

Had  daily  power  to  steal  and  lay  aside 

A  secret  and  accumulating  fund, 

And  had  he  done  so  he  risked  naught  of  fame;: 

In  life  he  braved  the  scorn  of  all  the  world. 


Meek  followers  of  the  lowly  Nazarene  — 
Who,   Lord  of  all,   had  not  a  place  to  rest;  ' 
Besides,  why  chose  they  for  their  almoner 
A  man  so  lost  to  shame,  so  foul,  with  greed, 
Or  why,  if  he  was  known  to  be  so  vile, 
(And  who  can  hide  his  baseness  at  all  times) 
Keep  him  in  high  position  to  the  last? 
Naught,  naught  in  all  his  life,  by  acts  or  words,. 
Shows  the  consummate  villain  that  full  grown 
Leaps  all  at  once  to  such  a  depth  of  crime. 
Firm  in  the  faith  that  Jesus  was  the  Lord  — 
The  great  Messiah,  sent  to  save  the  world, — 
He,  seeking  for  a  sign,  not  for  himself 
But  to  show  proof  to  all  that  He  was  God, 
Conceived  this  plan,   rash  if  you  will,,  but  grand; 
Thinking  Him -man,   he  said,    "  Mere  mortal  man,. 


OTHER    POEftlS.  191 


They  seek  to  seize  him.     I  will  make  pretence, 

To  take  the  public  bribe  and  point  him  out, 

And  they  shall  go  all  armed  with  swords  and  staves  — 

Strong  with  the  power  of  law  to  seize  on  him  — 

And  at  their  touch  he,   God  Himself,  shall  stand 

Revealed  before  them,  and  their  swords  shall  drop, 

And,  prostrate  all  before  Him,  shall  adore, 

And  cry,    'Behold  the  Lord  and  King   of  all.'" 

But  when  the  soldiers  laid  their  hands  on  Him, 

And  bound  Him  as  they  would  a  prisoner  vile, 

With  taunts  and  mockery,  'and  threats  of  death  — 

He  all  the  while  submitting  — then  his  dream 

Burst  into  fragments  with  a  crash;  aghast 

The  whole  world  reeled  before  him;  the  dread  truth 

Swooped  like  a  sea  upon  him,  bearing  down 

His  thoughts  in  wild  confusion.     He  who  dreamed 

To  ope  the  gates  of  glory  to  his  Lord, 

Opened  instead  the  prison's  jarring  door, 

And  saw  above  him,  his  dim  dream  of  love 

Change  to  a  Fury  stained  with  blood  and  crime; 

And  then  a  madness  seized  him,  and  remorse, 

With  pangs  of  torture,  drove  him  down  to  death. 


Call  him  not  traitor;  would  such  one  whose  heart 
Is  cased  to  shame,  fling  back  the  paltry  bribe? 
And  where  he  knew  his  Master  was  condemned, 
Rush  forth  in  horror,  but  to  seek  his  death? 
Was  he  from  man's  society  driven  out? 
Did  all  men  flee  his  presence,  till  he  found 
Life  too  intolerable?     Nay,  not  so! 
Death  came  too  soon  upon  the  heels  of  crime. 
The  nation  claimed  what  he  had  done  was  just, 
At  least  no  crime.     'Twas  not  the  upper  class 
Alone  —  the  rabbis,   Pharisees  and  priests  — 
The  lower  mob  as  well,  all,  all  cried  out, 
"Give  us  Barabbas:  Jesus,  to  the  cross!" 


i92  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


Where  Judas  spent  that  dark,   momentous  night 

The  sacred  narrative  revealeth  not; 

What  horrible  revulsions  must  have  passed, 

Across  that  spirit  in  those  few  last  hours, 

What  storms  that  tore  up  life  even  to  its  roots! 

Say  what  you  will  —  grant  all  the  guilt  —  and  still 

WJiat  pangs  of  dread  remorse  —  what  agonies 

Of  desperate  repentance  —  all  too  late, 

In  that  wild  interval  between  the  crime 

And  its  atonement  partial;  life,   the  while 

Laden  with  horror  all  too  great  to  bear, 

And  pressing  madly  on  death's  dark  abyss. 

Next  morn,   the  ghastly  shadow  of  a  man 

With  robes  all  soiled  and  torn,   and  tangled  beard 

Into  the  chamber  where  the  council  sat, 

Came,   feebly  staggering;  scarce  would  one  have  known 

'  Twas  Judas,   with  that  haggard,  blasted  face; 

So  had  that  night's  great  horror  altered  him   -, 

As  one  who  blindly  walking  in  a   dream. 

He  to  the  table  came,  against  it  leaned, 

Glared  wildly,   quickly  round,   then  stretching  forth, 

From  his  torn  robes,   a  trembling  hand,   flung  down, 

As  if  a  snake  had  bit,  him,  a  small  purse 

That  broke  and  scattered  its  white  coins  about, 

And  with  a  shrill  voice  cried:   "Take  back  the  purse! 

'Twas  not  for  that  foul  dross  I  did  the  deed  — 

'Twas  not  for  that — oh,   horror!  not  for  that! 

Only  that  I  believed  he  was  the  Lord, 

And  that  he  is  the  Lord  I  still  believe; 

But  oh,  the  sin!  the  sin!  I  have  betrayed 

Innocent  blood,  and  I  am  lost!  am  lost!" 

So  crying,  round  his  face  he  drew, 

And  blindly  rushed  away  and  headlong  fell. 

This  was  no  common  mind  that  thus  could  feel  — 
No  vulg'ar  villain  sinning  for  reward. 


OTHER    POEMS.  195 


CHANGE. 

These  sunset  moments  are  lovely  now, 
They  are  falling"  soft  on  my  weary  brow  — 

Weary  with  rueful  roaming. 
Yes,  soft  and  sweet  as  the  zephyr's  sigh, 
That  hushes  the  soul  with  its  lullaby, 

In  the  calm  and  peaceful  gloaming. 
There's  a  plaintive  pleasure  around  me  cast, 
Enticing  my  spirit  away  to  the  past. 


These  tall  shadows  stretched  on  the  gilded  plain, 
Low  whisper  that  sunset  is  with  us  again  — 

Like  monitor  spirits  I  find  them. 

These  shadows,  where  are  they?     Ah  me!  they  are  flown, 
They  have  followed  the  sun  to  his  regions  unknown, 

And  have  left  but  this  moral  behind  them  — 
"We  are  emblems,  too  true,  of  life's  prettiest  things. 
Even  pleasures  and  friendships  are  shadows  with  wings." 

Dear  friendship!  I  gaze,  but  discover  you  not  — 
In  the  PAST  you  appear  but  a  featureless  blot, 

Where  no  bright  ray  is  beaming. 
Sweet  Pleasure!  I  listen  thy  music  no  more; 
Thy  melody's  siren  allurement  is  o'er — 

It  is  changed  to  unhallowed  dreaming. 
Ah,  yes,  rueful  Change,  thou  indeed  art  the  pall 
That  dims  life's  sunniest  green  spots  all. 

• 

Proud  princely  towers,  where  once  the  song  t 

Of  wassail  mirth,  from  the  lordly  throng, 

Echoed  through  hall  and  turret! 
Are  tenantless — roofless  —  silent  all — 


I94  BALLADS   OF    LIFE. 


And  the  rough  moss  grows  on  the  crumbling  wall, 

While  the  night-owl  murmurs  o'er  it; 
And  the  homage  of  Ruin  is  mutely  paid 
On  the  shrine  which  merciless  Change  has  made. 

Those  stately  thrones,  and  those  powers  that  sway 
The  destinies  of  our  world  to-day, 

Must  perish  like  those  before  them; 
And  others  —  yea,  and  others  anew  — 
Shalf  follow  to  fall  and  perish  too, 

As  Change,  on  his  mission,   creeps  o'er  them; 
For  Change  is  the  worm  that  dieth  not, 
Till  he  bringeth  all  to   "the  common  lot." 

• 
The  homestead  hearth  is  now  cold  and  lone  — 

The  hearts  that  gladdened  it — all  save  one  — 
Wax'd  faint,   and  droop'd,  and  perish'd. 
And  that  lone  one  only  lives  and  feels, 
And  ponders  and  throbs,  but  nought  reveals 

Of  the  loves  so  fondly  cherish' d. 
It  is  lingering  out  its  lonesome  day, 
And  brooding,  with  smiles,  o'er  its  own  decay. 

Oh!  where  are  the  lov'd  ones?     No  answer  returns; 
No  voice  can  be  heard  in  those  cold,  clay  urns, 

Where  the  fond  and  the  fair  lie  sleeping.. 
The  soul  starts  back  from  the  dismal  thought, 
Nor  finds  the  balm  she  so  eagerly  sought, 

Though  she  sought  it  even  with  weeping. 
She  shrinks  from  the  world  in  mute  distress, 
And  lives  in  her  own  sad  loneliness. 

YE  PAST!  YE  PAST!  will  ye  not  return! 

Must  the  eye  still  weep,  and  the  heart  still  mourn 

In  plaintive,  broken  numbers  ? 
Is  there  naught  in  the  wide — the  sovereign  range 


OTHER    POEMS.  195 


Controled  by  the  great  magician,   Change, 

That  can  call  you  from  your  slumbers? 
No! — Memory  weeps,  but  must  weep  in  vain  — 
For,  ah!     ye  can  ne'er  return  again! 

But  Change  is  coming,   on  rainbow  wings, 
To  brighten  the  earth  with  happier  things. 

He  cometh  with  truth  for  error  — 
With  love  for  hate — with  joy  for  woe, 
He  cometh  to  make  the  world  below 

Pure  Virtue's  humble  mirror. 
Where  freedom  and  harmony — peace  and  love, 
.Shall  be  shadowed  forth  from  the  world  above. 


PAST  AND  FUTURE:  A  NEW  YEAR'S  RHYME. 

Again  the  day  is  come  that  marks  as  gone 
'Of  my  life's  jewels  yet  another  one; 
Another  year! — ay,  jewels  are  they  all, 
Of  little  price  when  many  seem  in  store; 
But  gaining  value  as  their  numbers  fall 
From  few  to  less,  instead  of  few  to  more; 
Becoming  priceless  most,  when  least  of  all 
They  are  of  use,  and  mock  our  longing  call. 
With  silent  pointings  to  the  wasted  part  — 
Wasted  with,  ah!  how  much  of  impure  art! — 
Lc-oming  amongst  the  silent  halls  of  time, 
Dead  echoes  of  an  unforgotten  chime, 
And  pointing  thence  to  years  to  come,  ah,   me! 
Which  may  be  ours — but  also  may  riot  be; 
Or,  if  they  be,  are  of  that  duller  kind 
To  which  the  body  clings  without  the  mind. 
And  here  J  stand  and  wonderingly  gaze 


196  BALLADS   OF    LIFE. 


Upon  this  life  of  mine  —  half  done  or  more. 

Oh!  for  the  power  to  recall  many  a  phase, 

To  use  it  better  than  I  did  before! 

Thus  do  we  think,   after  the  strife  is  done, 

Before  the  lost  ground  has  again  been  won; 

But  if  this  life  could  be  lived  o'er  again, 

Should  we  be  better  for  the  less  of  pain 

Experience  has  taught  us  to  incur, 

Or  worse  for  feeling  not  her  healthy  spur? 

Vain  is  the  wish,   and  vainer  yet  the  thought 

To  have  undone  what  ne'er  can  be  unwrought; 

Youth  with  the  wisdom  of  old  age,  who  dreams 

'Twere  summer  heat  without  the  sun's  glad  beams! 

And  looking  back  into  the  checquered  past, 

Its  griefs,   its  pangs,   I  do  not  stand  aghast; 

Though  grieving  for  lost  opportunities; 

Though  shaming  at  victorious  vanities; 

Though  penitent  for  much  that's  done  amiss, 

For  not  aye  spurning  the  world's  Judas-kiss. 

For  none  won  battles  who  none  ever  lost; 

And  few  love  virtue  who  know  not  her  cost! 

And  therefore  do  I  not  discard  the  past 

As  dead  and  gone,  as  useless,   now,  at  last. 

It  is  the  sum  of  all  my  present  being, 

The  overture  to  all,  which  dimly  seeing, 

Regenerate,   nobler,   in  my  kind  and  me. 

It  is  experience  lights  the  hallowed  fire, 

By  which  mankind  is  taught  to  shun  the  mire, 

Which  drew  us  once  to  its  deep  hidden  brink, 

Its  meteoric,  poisonous  sludge  to  drink! 

Hence,  be  thou  welcome  unto  me,   New  Year! 

Though  strange  thy  course,   I  greet  thee  without  fearr 

Though  I  do  love  the  past,   no  enmity 

I  bear  to  thee,  but  welcome  to  my  heart: 

An  opportunity  for  good,   for  truth,  for  art! 

For  what  we  have  achieved  we  need  not  thee, 

But  all  the  balm  for  what's  wrong  lies  in  thee; 


OTHER    POEMS.  197 

For  who  shall  say  the  last  good  now  is  ours? 
But  he  who  doubts  the  everlasting  powers 
By  which  the  soul  is  drawn  towards  new  lights, 
To  ignore  which  means  death  or  hidden  blights. 
Ah,  little  soul!  who  thinkest  nothing  good, 
But  what  delights  thine  own  poor,  worn-out  mood, 
As  if  what  thou  now  deem'st  the  best  and  last, 
Had  not  been  scorned  by  generations  past! 
There  is  no  end  to  man's  aspiring  thought, 
As  long  as  thought  with  nobleness  be  fraught. 
The  end  is  but  in  Him  who  was  the  First, 
Until  He  says:  Enough!  the  soul  will  thirst! 
Thirst  after  greater  truths  and  truer  good, 
And  so  run  on  for  aye,  thou  human  flood! 
'Tis  not  for  human  hands  to  stem  the  tide, 
Which  only  shall  by  Sovereign  will  subside. 


TO  UNSEEN  FRIENDS. 

THOUGH  on  earth  we've  had  no  meeting,. 
Still  I  send  you  words  of  greeting 
That  may  stir  our  souls  with  echoes 

From  that  far-off  seraph  shore; 
Ere  we  left  the  golden  portals 
Of  the  home  of  the  immortals, 
Where  in  our  primeval  childhood, 

Sported  we  in  days  of  yore. 

Here  the  sorrowing,  heavy-laden, 
Still  by  faith  may  see  that  aiden 
Where  the  good  and  true  the  victory  gained,. 
Shall  joy  forevermore. 


£98  BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 

What  though  clouds  and  storms  surround  us, 
Though  in  darkness  they  have  bound  us, 
Yet  we  know  the  sun  is  shining 
High  above  the  tempest  roar. 

Thus  my  heart  seems  sometimes  swelling, 

With  a  joy  beyond  all  telling; 

As  though  in  my  memory  lingered, 

Echoes  of  that  golden  shore  — 
Telling  of  the  waves  of  gladness, 
Ere  .our  hearts  were  stung  with  sadness, 
'Ere  we  left  our  parents  mansion, 

Or  these  mortal  forms  we  wore. 


O,  my  distant  friends  and  brothers, 
We  are  each  and  all  another's, 
And  the  heart  that  gives  most  freely 

From  its  treasure  hath  the  more; 
For  in  giving  love  we  find  it, 
With  a  golden  chain  we  bind  it, 
.Like  an  amulet  of.  safety 

To  our  hearts  for  evermore. 


REQUIEM   FOR   GEN.    GRANT. 

TOLL  the  bell  mournfully,  toll  the  bell  slow, 
Toll  the  bell  solemnly,   toll  the  bell  low: 
The  chief  of  our  land  is  taken  away, 
The  nation  in  grief  is  mourning  to-day: 
Mantle  his  form  with  the  flag  of  our  land, 
The  symbol  of  peace  then  place  in  his  hand 


OTHER    POEMS.  199 


CHORUS:     Toll  the  bell  mournfully,  toll  the  bell  slow, 
Toll  the  bell  solemnly,  toll  the  bell  low; 
The  chieftain  beloved  is  taken  away, 
The  nation  in  grief  is  mourning  to-day. 


Toll  the  bell  mournfully,   toll  the  bell  slow, 
Toll  the  bell  solemnly,  toll  the  bell  low. 
Thousands  of  veterans  grieve  o'er  his  tomb, 
Millions  of  freemen  mourn  in  their  home; 
Foemen  no  longer  feel  hate  in  their  breast, 
But  weep  as  they  lay  the  old  soldier  to  rest. 


Toll  the  bell  mournfully,  toll  the  bell  slow, 
Toll  the  bell  solemnly,  toll  the  bell  low: 
Think  of  his  toil  when  the  nation  was  sad, 
Think  of  his  kindness  when  peace  made  us  glad; 
Fierce  to  the  foeman  in  battle's  rude  blast, 
Kind  to  that  foe  when  the  struggle  was  past. 


Toll  the  bell  mournfully,  toll  the  bell  slow, 

Toll  the  bell  solemnly,  toll  the  bell  low; 

High  on  his  tomb  the  banner  unfold, 

Sculpture  his  name  in  letters  of  gold; 

Think  of  his  deeds  as  we  lay  him  to  rest, 

Where  naught  shall  disturb  the  peace  of  his  breast.  - 


Toll  the  bell  mournfully,  toll'  the  bell  slow, 

Toll  the  bell  solemnly,  toll  the  bell  low, 

One  more  great  shrine  in  our  great  and  free  land; 

One  more  great  name  in  fame's  temple  shall  stand; 

One  more  great  page  in  history  is  wrought  — 

For  men  of  all  ages  a  lesson's  been  taught. 


BALLADS    OF    LIFE. 


UNKNOWN   HEROES. 

OH,  will  no  one  sing  the  heroes, 

Helped  in  thousands  slain, 
As  they  in  glory  fighting 
On  the  battle  plain? 

Are  they  now  to  be  forgotten 
In  their  crimson  graves? 
Land  they  fought  for,  bled  for,   died  for, 
Sing  you  not  your  braves? 

CHORUS:     Strike  the  saddest  chords  of  music 

For  the  heroes  gone; 
Sing  them  softly,  hearts  that  loved  them, 

In  your  sweetest  song —  , 

Sing  them  softly,  hearts  that  loved  them, 

In  your  sweetest  song. 

Hearths  are  cold  and  hearts  are  lonely 

That  were  warm  and  gay, 
But  the  forms  that  made  them  happy 
Where  are  they  to-day?  — 

Dead  beneath  the  turf  they  fought  on,. 

Flowers  alone  to  tell, 
x       With  their  rank  and  florid  beauty 
Where  in  death  they  fell. 

For  the  great  in  combat  fallen. 

Fame  forever  smiles; 
Mournful  dirges,  swelling  grandly, 
Flood  the  dreaming  aisles; 

But  for  those  we  parted,  weeping 

At  our  humble  door, 
Sighs  and  tears,  in  gloom  and  silence,. 
Mingle  evermore. 


OTHER    POEMS. 


A   NOAD   TO   BLONDIN. 

% 

remarkabel  pusson!  enterprisin  Stranger! 

You  left  the  Shears  ov  frans,  wair  you  youse  to  liv, 

&  landed  hear,  taking  at  I's  a  Hi  Stan. 

You  hev  mutch  genus  &  apperiently  few  cloaths. 

Your  intelegent  feachers  Speaks  well  Ballanst  mind, 

&  we  al  no  youv  got  a  well  Ballanst  Body. 

You  must  Be  good,  for  we  all  no  you  wock 

A  strait  and  narer  path  which  few  kin  foller. 

altho  thin  clad  your  not  a  Shiftless  pusson, 

fur  you  Support  yourself  uncommon  well. 

Sumbody's  warnd  you  Bout  the  1st  fals  Step, 

.fer  all  kin  see  yourm  cairful  not  to  taik  it. 


remarkable  pusson!  perfick  Biznis  man! 
wus  it  a  gal  that  got  you  onto  a  string? 
Exkews  me  ef  i  tech  a  tender  cord  — 
i  woodnt  hirt  your  feelings  for  the  world, 
what  Sercus  man  did  you  taik  lessons  ov? 
You  probbly  Startid  onto  a  rale  rode  trac, 
or  praps  a  curb  stun;  then  you  took  to  fensis; 
*  &  then  you  Soared  to  rafters  of  noo  houses, 
a  Scairin  al  the  Carpenters  like  mischief; 
then   "  Roaps"  was  whispered  By  your  guardian  angel - 
to  which  you  listened  with  a  Swete  Sirpris, 
&  ordered  ov  a  Balens  poal  imejitly. 

remarkabel  pusson!  forever  tremanjus, 

.Bi  merely  taking  ov  a  wock,  you  cleer 

1,000  dolers  neerly  every  time. 

Besides,  you  walk  into  al  pepels  afackshuns. 

the  Hier  you  git  the  Stroiter  you  kin  wock. 

this  shows  you  aint  of  al  like  Common  foax. 


BALLADS   OF   LIFE. 


Which  can't  wock  mutch  when  they  air  elevated. 

Youm  Consecraited  for  to  wock  a  roap. 

Ef  i  wus  young  (wich  Striclly  Speaking  ain't  troo,) 

&  hedent  no  wife,  likewise  no  tender  infans, 

i  thine  ide  lern  for  to  wock  a.  roap  miself. 

remarkabel  pusson!  preservin  frenchman! 

did  you  leve  eny  ist  chop  men  in  frans  ? 

ide  bet  there  ain't  no  smarter  men  than  you  there! 

Did  lewis  napolin.  ever  see  you  wock? 

Ef  so,  perhaps  he  got  a  Hint  or  2 

that  learnt  him  for  to  keep  the  roap  himself. 

they  Say  sum  pepel  go  to  see  you  fall, 

&  cuss  perfusely  when  they  see  you  doarit. 

Fein  french,  ov  coars  you  would  plese  your  frens^ 

But  probbly  you  ain't  french  enuf  for  that, 

Becos  it  woodent  pay  as  well  as  wockin; 

Besides,  you  coodent  get  your  life  inshoored. 

remarkabel  pusson!  Elivatid  carricler! 
Wot  is  your  cam  opiny  ov  america  ? 
You  must  hev  moments  ov  profound  reflekshun 
While  a  standin  onto  your  Hed  so  dignified. 
We  Shood  Be  Sorry  to  Hev  you  go  away 
&  say  that  things  Heer  doant  egsackly  Soot. 
Weer  very  angshus  for  to  pleese  grait  foriners. 
air  you  pleesed  with  niagry,  mr.   Blondin?  praps 
it  ain  as  good,  for  a  fall,  as  some  in  frans, 
But  it  roars  cuite  passibel,  sumtime  in  the  night.. 
You  air  admired,  grait  foriner,  by  thousands.. 
Keep  on  a  wockin,   mr..  Blondini  adoo. 


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